


Penalty Kill

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn, Top!Stiles, awkward!derek, bottom!Derek, confident!stiles, i'm sorry for making you wait, mentions of abuse, no like very slow burn, sourwolf!derek, stiles gets terrorized by his ex, this may be a long one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles Stilinski takes up the starting goalie position for the Beacon Hills Wolves, he expects his entire life to be about hockey. He doesn't expect his captain to become a lot more that a teammate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very hand-wavey depiction of hockey. I'm a hockey fan, but couldn't really mesh the two worlds together that well. That being said, timelines, games, teams, divisions, playoffs, etc. probably won't follow or line up with real life hockey at all. My deepest apologies to any hockey fans reading - trust me, it's hurting me a bit to write it this way,
> 
> Ages and relationships may or may not be on key with the show. Characters may or may not have the same traits as in the show (though I try to keep main character in character as much as possible). Dead characters are mentioned, as well as newer character (alpha pack members).
> 
> If I translate anything into another language, it's probably going to be wrong.
> 
> Non-graphic mentions of past abusive relationships.
> 
> Basically, this is an AU for a reason. It’s all types of mixed up, but I hope you like it anyway!

It’s no surprise to anyone when Stiles gets drafted. He’s unbelievably good, with the best save percentage in Juniors. He pulls more shutouts than some of the best goalies in history. What is surprising, though, is that at only 19, he’s being thrown into the _starting_ goalie position. The Beacon Hills Wolves lost their starter to a severe concussion, one bad enough to lead to retirement. Worse, their backup’s contract ended, and he left them high and dry. So, Stiles gets to live the dream. While anyone else would feel nervous, pressured, he just feels _good._

Stiles’ agent takes him to meet Derek a few days after the draft. Victoria painted the picture that his new captain was terrifying, an emotionless wall of muscle and hate. Stiles tried to take it in stride, though, since Victoria was the scariest person he’d ever met anyway.

Derek lives at the owners house, Alan Deaton. Deaton was a brilliant center before he retired, and led the Wolves to three Stanley Cups. Stiles hears Derek is on the path to living up to him. To be honest, Stiles has heard a lot about Derek. He’s watched a lot of Derek, too. He may just be obsessed with the man’s playing. He’s unstoppable.

When Victoria ushers Stiles up to the door, Stiles has to take a minute before he knocks. He wants to impress his captain. If Derek’s really such a hardass, being such a young player isn't going to be easy if Stiles is on his bad side. But when the door swings open and Stiles sees Derek scowling behind a friendly Deaton, he grins. The guy looks like a puppy. A puppy who’s gotten his favorite toy taken away, but a puppy none the less.

“Stiles,” Deaton claps him on the shoulder, “good to see you again!” He steps to the side, and waves a hand at Derek. “This is Derek Hale, your captain.” Stiles steps forward, his goofiest grin plastered on his face, and holds out his hand. Derek looks at his hand like it’s dirty, before grudgingly taking it in his.

“I’m Stiles,” he says, trying not to wince at the death grip Derek delivers. “Stiles Stilinski,” he adds. Derek looks him up and down, his face screwed up a little bit, as if he smells something foul.

“Who names their kid Stiles?” he asks, dropping Stiles hand. Stiles smile falters a bit, but only for a second.

“My real name was too hard to pronounce. I changed it.” Derek just grunts. Deaton grabs Stiles’ shoulder again, leading him inside.

“Come on then, I look rude letting you stand out here,” he insists. Stiles elbows Derek playfully as he slides past him into the house.

“Smile,” he says under his breath. Derek just scowls and closes the door after Victoria.

~

Derek excuses himself to the guest house within minutes, forcing out a “nice to meet you” without actually looking at Stiles.

“ _Lovely guy,_ ” Stiles chirps to Deaton and Victoria once Derek’s out of earshot. He sips on the water Deaton gave him, wishing it were soda. He can’t afford the sugar high though, he’s already naturally jittery. Deaton smiles at him, though it looks a little forced.

“It takes him awhile to... warm up to people,” he explains. Victoria lets out a sharp and short laugh.

“What Alan means is that he doesn’t warm up to people at all.” Deaton - Alan - sighs.

“Don’t scare the boy, Victoria,” he starts, but Stiles puts a hand up in protest.

“I don’t scare easily,” Stiles says with a smirk.

Alan gives Stiles the details of the team dinner that Derek failed to mention. He insists that Stiles goes, and briefs him a bit about what he’s walking into. “They’re a good group of guys,” he tells Stiles. Some PR agents and statistics specialists are going to be at the dinner too, and Victoria sternly tells Stiles not to get involved with any women in the organization. Stiles guarantees them that it won’t be an issue - and really, it won’t be - before leaving with a heartfelt thank you for the hospitality. 

~

Meeting the rest of the team is a lot less intimidating. Plus, Stiles gets food out of the deal, so he’s all for it. He’s greeted by a full table, most of whom raise their glasses in hello. Danny Mahealani, the old starting goalie, stands up and walks over to him, shaking his hand eagerly. “My replacement, everyone,” he says with a smile, waving his hand around Stiles. “Treat him better than you treated me, will you?” The table laughs, and Danny throws his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and leads him to his chair.

Stiles recognizes the guy next to him him as Scott McCall, a center. He leans across over and asks under his breath, “Is everyone already drunk?” Scott grins at him, dopey and lopsided.

“Not _everyone,_ don’t worry,” he answers, twisting in his chair to shake Stiles’ hand. “Nice to meet you, man.” Scott taps his glass with a spoon and starts up a round of slurred introductions. Everyone seems happy to meet him.

The woman next to him - Lydia - turns to him after he gets everyone’s name. “Wine?” she asks, her accent heavy with Russian. He declines, and she laughs. “Don’t blame you. Nothing beats vodka.” Stiles leans in, intrigued.

“Could you repeat that in Russian?” Her eyes brighten and she nods, repeating herself. Stiles beams. “Fascinating.”

“Man of languages?”

“I’d like to be!”

“Heard is very fulfilling. My girlfriend speaks many languages,” she says, nodding down the table to Allison, a PR agent.

The rest of the night goes smoothly. Stiles learns everyones nicknames and the stories behind them. Everyone chirps about other teams draft picks, and Stiles joins in with a grin. In around an hour, he’s had a few glasses of wine and is smiling consistently, laughing as if he belongs there.

On the way to the bathroom, Stiles passes Derek, who’s arguing with Coach Finstock. Something about third and fourth lines. Stiles lands a light hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, Sourwolf,” he insists before going on his way. Derek glares after him, lips pressed into a tight line and nostrils flared. The entire table has gone silent, waiting for Derek to react. But Stiles moves out of sight, and Derek eventually looks back at Finstock and grunts, picking up the conversation where it left off.

The rest of the table returns to excited chatter, except for a handful. Isaac turns to Scott, wide eyed. “Why didn’t he kill him?” Scott shrugs, clearly puzzled.

“No idea, but he’s lucky.”

At the end of the night, Stiles gets a lot of handshakes, and some hugs goodbye. Lydia says something to him in hurried Russian, earning a giggle from Allison. He cocks his head to the side and starts to ask, but she laughs sharply and walks away with a wink.

Jackson Whittemore punches his shoulder a little too hard, and offers, “better learn Russian, she was probably insulting you,” before leaving himself. Stiles goes to say goodbye to Derek, but he’s already gone, avoiding human contact. Seems to be his thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Practice starts the next week. Stiles is excited to get his skates back on the ice, put his pads back on, and start stopping pucks. He gets jostled around in the locker room and chirped at for being so skinny. He grins - it’s just like Juniors. Except everyone’s better, and this is the real deal. Which he’s reminded of as soon as he hits the net. The first puck to the chest _stings,_ but it makes him smile anyway. He feels like he’s home.

He gets bombarded by pucks while the team practices their shots one after another. Derek takes a breather, leaning up against the glass next to Finstock, and ends up smiling against his will. Stiles is brilliant, in all honesty, even if Derek halfway wishes he wasn’t. Finstock looks over at him, grinning. “He’s pretty good, huh?” Derek tones his smile down to a smirk as quickly as possible.

“I guess he’s alright.”

~

The rest of the week sails by. The team warms up, their shots get better. But so does Stiles, and his saves are getting even more impressive. The better he gets, the more the team chirps him. He’s blending in well, he thinks. He hasn’t even had a panic attack, and that’s something to be proud of.

Derek’s still... sour. He’s a hardass on the team, raising his voice when speaking would suffice and grinding into the guys for every mistake. Luckily, he doesn’t have much to yell at Stiles for.

“You know,” Scott says, plopping down next to Stiles in the locker room after practice, “you’re the only one who doesn’t get bitched at around here.”

“Lydia bitches at me plenty,” Stiles tells him. And it’s true. She tramps around with her clipboard in her high heels, calculating his safe percentage at every practice and cursing at him in Russian whenever it drops.

“She’s better than Der-” Scott starts, before Derek stops in front of them, glaring. “Hey there captain,” Scott recovers, “good job out there today!” Derek grunts and walks off, barely looking at Stiles.

“At least you know what Derek’s saying,” Stiles says, and heads into the showers.

~

“Stiles, my boy!” Danny claps Stiles on the shoulder after the final practice of the week. Stiles almost jumps out of his skin. He should be used to it by now. Danny’s the new goaltending coach - who else, really? - and the guy’s always coming out of nowhere. “Everyone’s going out tonight, and you’re coming,” Danny tells him when Stiles collects himself.

“I’m pretty sure coaches aren’t supposed to drink with their players,” Stiles tells him with a grin. But he agrees to go anyway, accepting Danny’s shitty explanation about being a “different kind of team.”

Isaac bumps him on the way out of the locker room, smiling. “Maybe we can find you a girl tonight.” Stiles laughs along with him, but that won’t be happening.

~

Stiles’ v neck is a size too small, but that seems about right for the bar the team picked out. He checks himself out in the one full sized mirror in the house. “Lookin’ good, Stiles,” he tells himself. He makes a mental note to get a mirror for the master bedroom though. The house is pretty empty so far. He bought it on a whim without really planning anything - he needed a place in Beacon Hills.

His cab driver recognizes him from the draft, and asks a bunch of questions about the team. Stiles tries to be as professional as possible, but it’s hard not to chirp the guys on the spot.

When he gets to the bar, he hears someone call “over here!” It’s Ethan, crowded into the biggest table in the corner with the rest of the team. Stiles groans a bit internally. Ethan and his twin brother Aiden are almost as obnoxious as Jackson.

He sits down next to Isaac, ordering a beer. “You got a good fake ID, then?” Isaac asks with a smirk.

“Didn’t even card me. They really should have, the entire city knows I’m underage.” He thanks the girl who brings him his beer, and pointedly ignores her flirty smile.

“Not your type?” Jackson smirks at him from across the table. “Out of your league or something, Stilinski?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says drily, before looking to the door. “Whoa, Isaac,” he starts, whipping around, “how did you guys get Derek here?” Isaac laughs.

“We all had to bully him.” Derek clears his throat when he gets to the table. Stiles slides over to make room.

“Take a seat, captain!” Derek regards him with his nose crinkled, before sighing and sitting down.

“Aren’t you a bit young for bars?” he asks Stiles after ordering his own drink.

“Aren’t you a bit stuffy for them?” The entire table laughs, even Jackson, but Derek just rolls his eyes. Ennis leans across the table and grins at Derek. He’s probably the only one Derek would admittedly call a friend.

“So, the guy two tables over is pretty cute,” Ennis tells him. Stiles thinks it’s a chirp, but Derek looks over at the guy for a few seconds.

“He’s wearing an orange shirt,” Derek says blandly, chugging half of his beer. Stiles stares at him for a minute, then blinks and shakes his head a bit.

“Oh come _on,_ ” Danny whines, “he’s adorable.”

“Orange, Danny. Orange,” Derek says again, finishing his beer and flagging down another. “I hate orange.” Danny lets out an exaggerated sigh, and waves over the waitress.

“Maybe it’ll look closer to red when you’re drunk,” he tells Derek, and orders the table shots.

“I’m not getting drunk,” Derek insists, and pushes his shot towards Stiles when they come. Stiles pushes it back.

“Captains can’t have fun, now?” He grins at Derek. “Or are you just scared?” At the hint of a challenge, Derek picks up his shot and takes it without losing eye contact with Stiles, smirking.

“Looks like you know how to push his buttons,” Isaac whispers in his ear.

~

Two hours and an undetermined amount of shots later, most of the table has dispersed. Danny’s talking to the guy with the orange shirt, and Ethan’s glaring at him from the corner. Lydia and Allison - who showed up and chirped the boys for a bit - are dancing, and it’s hard to tell who’s hands are whose. In fact, the only people left without a dance or drinking partner are Ennis, Isaac, Scott, Stiles, and Derek. Ennis doesn’t even count, because he’s married.

Derek is hammered. So hammered that when Stiles starts filling his shot glass up with water, he doesn’t even notice. Around midnight, Derek’s swaying back and forth in his seat, laughing at Stiles’ terrible jokes and not glaring at anyone. When he stops swaying, he’s leaning slightly on Stiles’ shoulder. Lydia and Allison slide into the booth, and Lydia takes one look at Derek before bursting into laughter. She says something in Russian to Allison, who laughs too, and then repeats it to Stiles.

“I don’t understand,” he grumbles, which just makes them laugh harder.

“Should learn Russian,” Lydia tells him. “Easier to make fun.” It’s Stiles’ turn to grunt, but he does make a mental note to pick up the language. “Should take home,” Lydia says, nodding at Derek. Stiles scoffs.

“He can take himself home,” Stiles tells her, but Ennis roars with laughter.

“Derek hasn’t been drunk in years. He won’t make it home.” Stiles looks at the rest of the table frantically, and now they’re all laughing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“We aren’t doing it,” Jackson chimes in with a smirk, appearing at the end of the table. “Go along now.” Stiles grumbles, but helps Derek up anyway. “Looks like your girl was out of your league,” he calls back to Jackson.

~

In the end, Stiles holds Derek up with one arm while he flags down a cab. Derek is going on about how he wishes his uncle Peter would retire, because he’s getting old, and he’s really not that good of a goalie, and he’s sick of seeing him whenever they play the Bears.

By the time they get into the cab, Derek is all talked out, and just humming some wordless song that Stiles can’t recognize. He manages to get Derek to tell the cab driver his address before he passes out on Stiles’ shoulder, drooling.

He has to smack Derek to wake him up, and beg the cabbie to stay put while he drags Derek into his house and up to bed. “Stiles-” Derek starts, but then his head hits the pillow and he groans happily. “Soft,” he mumbles, and Stiles pulls the comforter out from under him to tuck him in.

“Rookies are supposed to pick up pucks, not babysit drunk captains,” he grumbles to himself on the way back to the cab. “It’s always me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Life after the night out continues just the same. Stiles never gets a thank you, and he wasn’t expecting one in the first place. The only thing that’s changed is how Stiles says “too much to drink?” whenever Derek falls, and how Derek shoves him afterwards. They’re playful shoves, but Stiles lets everyone think they hurt.

Derek still isn’t yelling at Stiles on the ice, even in the week leading up to their first game, when he’s grilling everyone else constantly. No one on the team is slacking off, not even Jackson, who usually acts like he’s too good for practice. Nerves are running high, it seems, in everyone except for Stiles. That is, until he hits the internet.

It’s his thing, really. It always has been, research and web browsing and watching highlights on Youtube. Maybe he just isn’t used to the media of the big leagues yet, or maybe he’s always been this sensitive, but either way the articles shake him. The one he rereads says that there’s no possible way for him to be ready. He’s only 19, he’s _starting_ for God’s sake, and his backup Gerard is the oldest player in the league.

He’s jittery and anxious at practice the next day, and it shows in his stats. It’s the last practice before their first game, and he really needs to pick it up. Lydia curses at him in Russian across the ice, and he tells her to “fuck off, please and thank you.” He doesn’t realize he wasn’t speaking English until she elbows him during their first break.

“You learn Russian,” she tells him.

“I.. what? Oh. Yeah, I guess I am,” he says, sighing. Rosetta Stone is working wonders, apparently. He’s a fast learner anyway. She pats his cheek.

“Poor baby,” she coos slowly in Russian, “what’s gotten into you?” Stiles turns the words over in his mind for a minute before answering carefully.

“Media sucks. Terrible articles about me.” Lydia laughs at him, and he can’t tell if it’s his broken Russian or what he said. She switches back to English for his sake.

“Only write bad articles about good players,” she assures him. Derek skates up behind him as Lydia switches her attention, stopping just short of checking Stiles.

“You’re playing like shit,” he growls.

“Oh tell me something I don’t know Derek.” Derek doesn’t even bother to glare at him, he just sighs and drops his voice low enough that the others can’t hear.

“You’re a great goalie, Stiles,” he tells him. It looks like it’s physically hurting him to be nice. “If the media is really bothering you, prove them wrong.”

~

Stiles proves them wrong. Their first game against the Bears is hard fought. Derek makes the only goal of the game against his uncle with 1:16 left on the clock. It takes until the team crashes him into the net - Derek at the front of the pack - to realize he started off his NHL career with a shutout. Then he’s screaming along with the rest of them, letting someone pull his helmet off and ruffle his hair.

Derek gets pressed against him by the rest of the team, and he mumbles “told you so,” into Stiles ear. Stiles grins at him and let’s himself be slammed repeatedly into the ice as more people join the celebration.

The crowd chants his name until he feels high from all of the joy. In the locker room the guys whip him with towels and congratulate him again. Lydia runs everyones stats by them after their showers, and tells Stiles his in excited Russian. He grins at her because he understands every word, and they’re all good words.

Stiles wishes they could go out and celebrate, but they have another game in three days. He invites the team over for a few beers instead. The locker room cheers, and he hectically reminds them they have to bring the beer, since he can’t buy it himself. They groan a bit at that, but all promise to show up anyway.

~

The team starts insulting his complete lack of interior decorating the moment they walk in. Stiles whines at them and threatens to kick them out, but they just laugh at him. Lydia shows up with Allison, and another PR agent named Erica that Stiles hasn’t had much one on one conversation with. She brings some kind of fancy beer that tastes like apple juice, though, so Stiles doesn’t mind.

He hangs around for awhile, listening to Erica and Isaac speak in French and trying to pick up bits of what they’re saying. Scott walks up to him, slightly buzzed, and hipchecks him gently. “Where’s our captain?” Stiles shrugs.

“Probably re-watching the game already.” Scott laughs in agreement, and goes off to enlist some of the guys in a game of beer pong. “Careful with that table!” Stiles calls. “It’s new,” he sighs under his breath. He thinks about it for a minute, then wonders exactly why Derek is ditching their celebration. He’s the captain, he should be all about team unity.

**you’re late, bring extra beer to make up for it**

He pockets his phone and in all honesty, doesn’t expect to see Derek that night. But his captain shows up, with _extra beer,_ and apologizes to Stiles for being late. Stiles grins at him, grabs his forearm, and tells him not to worry about it. Derek flinches a little bit and looks at Stiles hand on his arm, but doesn’t shake him off.

~

The media doesn’t let up on Stiles just because of the shutout. In fact, they don’t let up on him three shutouts later, either. In fact, the articles get worse, talking about how his “beginner’s luck” is going to run out soon, and leave his team high and dry. Stiles manages to weasel his way out of any serious interviews until after their fourth game, when he’s cornered.

“So, Stiles,” the guy asks, shoving a microphone in his face, “how much longer is your beginner’s luck going to last?”

“Uh,” Stiles responds, skating backwards away from the microphone a bit, “I really wouldn’t call it luck-” The reporter cuts him off.

“Four shutouts by a rookie isn’t luck?”

“I mean, part of hockey is luck, of course, but-”

“Right, so how are you going to react when that luck isn’t carrying you in games?” Derek skates up right next to Stiles, stopping so he shoots shaved ice all over the reporter’s suit.

“His luck isn’t carrying him,” Derek snaps, “his skill is. Stiles is the best goalie this team has ever had.” Stiles jaw practically drops, and he whips his head around to stare at Derek. The reporter takes a few moments to collect himself, looking back and forth between Stiles and the glare on Derek’s face. The guy obviously values his life, because he moves the microphone in front of Derek instead.

“So, you’d say you have a pretty strong team this year?” Derek gives him a generic answer, looking at Stiles from the corner of his eye, and motioning for him to leave. Stiles mouths “thank you” as subtly as possible before skating away.

~

“Derek!” Stiles calls, chasing Derek down in the parking garage after the game, “wait up man.” Derek keeps walking until Stiles is right on his heels, then stops short and turns around. Stiles runs right into his chest, stumbling backwards.

“Watch it,” Derek grumbles, shooting his hand out to grab Stiles hip and keep him upright. As soon as Stiles is steadied, Derek pulls his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Hey, thanks for stopping, what was that about?” Derek grunts, looking around quickly.

“I hate being asked for autographs after games. I’m trying to get to my car.” Stiles laughs at him, because of course he hates autographs. It seems like he hates people in general. Derek just scowls and grunts out “stop laughing.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Stiles says, breathing deeply. “Anyway. I just wanted to thank you. For you know, the reporter. I guess I just freaked. I should learn how to handle myself better.”

“Yeah, you should,” Derek deadpans, “but you’re welcome.” He turns and takes a few steps away from Stiles before stopping again. He doesn’t turn around. He just quietly states, “I meant what I said,” before picking up the pace and practically jogging the rest of the way to his car. Stiles stares after him, at a loss, then shakes his head.

“What a weirdo,” he mumbles to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

A few dozen games and a 5:1 win ratio later, Stiles is soaring. After every win, he’s ecstatic, screaming with the fans and his team, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’s really living his dream. After losses, he reinforces that, reminding himself that even when things don’t go perfectly, this is still his life. He’s still doing what he loves, and he’s still happy.

The media’s let up on Stiles, but Derek sure hasn’t let up on the media. Stiles can’t remember the last time he did an interview without Derek at his elbow, staring down the reporter and snapping at anyone who tries to shake Stiles out of his high. And Stiles has taken to saying thank you by squeezing Derek’s forearm affectionately. Derek used to yank his arm away, but how he just shakes his head and smiles a little bit.

The team has taken to sending Stiles to ask Derek any important questions. “Hey Derek, think you can talk Finstock out of optional skate?” “Hey Derek, you won’t be mad if we go out after the game, will you?” “Hey Derek, the Tigers are going to be at the same bar as us, could you promise not to punch anyone in the face?” Nine out of ten times, Derek says yes, even if sometimes Stiles has to resort to the puppy dog face.

After a particularly hard loss on the road, Derek locks himself in his room, refusing to answer the door for the teams traditional “review the tapes and talk about how to improve” session. Isaac barges into Scott and Stiles’ room, arms full of candy and a smile on his face. Scott jumps up and shakes his head.

“Oh no man, we aren’t doing it in here. Especially not with candy, everyones going to fuck up our room.” Isaac just laughs at him, nodding at Stiles.

“Don’t worry man, Stiles here is going to get Captain Asshole to open up for the team.” Stiles looks up from his magazine for a minute, shaking his head.

“No way. Not my job, I’m just a goalie.”

“A goalie who can talk Derek into anything, so get your ass up and get into that room,” Isaac tells him, tossing a bag of skittles at Stiles’ head.

“I said-”

“Isaac has a point,” Scott cuts in, “he likes you more than the rest of us.”

“He hates the rest me,” Stiles insists with a sigh.

“Then he hates you less,” Scott argues. “Just try.” Stiles groans but gets up anyway, resolving to beat the crap out of one of them if Derek yells at him for this.

Instead, Derek looks him up and down, sighs, and lets him in without a word. Stiles grins up at him as he slides past, then bellyflops onto his bed. Derek stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at Stiles, looking pathetic. “What are you doing here, Stiles?”

“The team is missing out on it’s tradition,” Stiles tells him, flipping over and crossing his hands behind his head. “Stop being a Sourwolf and let them in.”

Derek sits on the edge of the bed, shakes his head, and gives Stiles a resounding “no.” Stiles groans, sitting up.

“Dude, why not? You let me in!” Derek sighs.

“Just you,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to himself. Stiles is going to ask what he means, but Derek cuts him off and says, “We can go over the tapes if you want.” Stiles thinks about it for a minute and agrees. It’s better than nothing. He moves to one side of the bed to give Derek a place to sit, and tries not to smile to himself.

When he gets back to his room, the entire team’s there. Boyd’s passed out on his bed, taking up the entire thing, and the place is covered in candy wrappers. But Stiles has a grin plastered on his face, and he curls up on the love seat to sleep.

~

Stiles birthday falls on a weekend with no games, and no one’s going to pass up the opportunity to turn it into a party. Especially Lydia. She tells Stiles to be at her place at nine, no exceptions. She promises him it won’t be a big event, just the team and some of their wives. He should know she’s lying.

The house is flooded with friends, families, and an abundance of Russians Stiles has never seen in his life. “Stiles!” Lydia cries from the top of her steps when he walks in, running down to meet him. “Welcome!” She kisses both of his cheeks, sloppy and excited, then grabs his shoulders and pulls him into the living room, making him the center of attention. She claps her hands, and announces, “birthday boy is here!”

The room cheers, and Stiles is bombarded with more hugs and kisses then he’s gotten in his entire life up until now. After a variety of introductions that he can’t possibly follow, Lydia finds him again, pulling him into the kitchen. He grins at her. “Thank you for saving me,” he says in near perfect Russian.

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry there are so many people,” she says, grabbing Stiles favorite beer - apple flavored, thank you Erica - from the fridge and shoving it into his hands. “I may have gone a little overboard.” Stiles chuckles.

“You go a little overboard with everything, Lydia.” He takes a long sip from his beer. “Thank you, this is great.” Scott and Isaac appear out of nowhere, slinging their arms around either shoulder and knocking him back and forth a little.

“Hey birthday boy,” Scott slurs drastically, ruffling Stiles’ hair. “Like your party?”

“Scott not manly enough for Russian parties,” Lydia tells Stiles, switching back to English, “to wimpy for my vodka.”

“Yeah,” Isaac assures him, “I’m handling it _much_ better.” Stiles shakes them off, grinning.

“You guys are both a mess,” he tells them. Chugging his beer, he throws the bottle into Lydia’s clearly labelled recycling bin, and goes to mingle. His teammates push him around, their wives kiss him on the cheek, and the entire Wolves organization pulls him in a million different directions, wishing him a happy birthday and congratulating him on his great season so far. He doesn’t see Derek anywhere.

An hour later, he’s overwhelmed. There are too many people he doesn’t know, he’s had beer spilled on him one too many times, and it’s getting hard to breathe. He excuses himself to Lydia’s backyard to calm down, get his anxiety in check.

He’s rocking casually on the swinging chair, humming to himself and facing away from the house, when someone puts their hand on his shoulder. He jumps up with a squeal before he realizes it’s Derek. “Jesus man, trying to give me a heart attack on my birthday?!” He plops back down on the swing, glaring up at his captain. Derek smiles a little.

“Sorry about that,” he says gently, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Stiles sighs, his glare fading.

“Can’t stay mad at you, big guy.” Derek straight up grins at that, and it’s such a rare sight that Stiles follows suit immediately.

“What are you smiling at?” Derek asks, trying to hide his own grin.

“You, trying to be a Sourwolf and failing terribly,” he tells him, standing up and punching him gently on the arm. His smile turns sly, and he cocks his head to the side. “So, Derek... whatcha get me for my birthday?” Derek looks taken aback for a second.

“Nothing.. did you.. did you want something?” Stiles giggles at him, and grabs both of his hands.

“I can think of something.” He pulls a very confused Derek over to the gazebo.

“Stiles, what _are_ you doing?” Stiles just takes a step closer to Derek, moving a hand gently to Derek’s shoulder.

“Dancing?” Derek shakes his head at him, and laughs, low and slightly harsh. But he puts his hands on Stiles’ hips anyway.

They move completely out of tune from the terrible pop music they can hear faintly from the house, and Derek keeps stepping on Stiles’ feet. Derek keeps sighing when they mess up, but Stiles just laughs, and takes a step back, forcing Derek to spin him around. When Derek pulls him back in, Stiles rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek sighs happily. “Happy birthday,” he whispers.

“I can’t believe you’re actually dancing with me,” Stiles tells him, pulling back a bit to look at his face. Derek looks at their feet before answering.

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he mumbles. Stiles stops moving, taking a step back and making Derek look him right in the eye.

“I know,” Stiles tells him, low and gentle even though no one’s around to hear him. “...I could kiss you right now, and you’d kiss me back.” It isn’t a question, and Derek knows it.

“Yes.”

“But I’d never know if it was for me, or because you wanted to,” Stiles tells him, only a hint of regret in his voice. He takes a bigger step back, grabbing Derek’s hand to pull him back towards the house. “I don’t think you’d know either.”

~

Inside, Lydia ushers him to the top of the steps so the entire party can sing happy birthday. It comes out of the crowd in English, Russian, and French, and it sounds dreadful. It’s perfect. Stiles raises his glass of champagne and thanks everyone for his best birthday yet. He thanks his team for believing in him and the entire organization for their support, and they cheer and raise their glasses in celebration.

Derek’s standing in the corner, sipping his drink slowly. He makes eye contact with Stiles, and raises his glass with the rest of the room, a small smile painted on his face.

Lydia pulls him into the hallway after the toast, and puts a hand on his cheek. “In love with the captain, huh?” He’s too flustered for a second to remember her language.

When he recovers, he says, “I wouldn’t call it love, really.” She laughs at him.

“I saw you. That was a dance of love, Stiles.” He grins at her despite himself.

“I suppose you always know best.” 


	5. Chapter 5

The team goes into a slump after Stiles’ birthday. It’s only five games, but it has everyone in a bad mood. Jackson is meaner than usual, Scott’s in one of his moods, and Derek won’t even smile when Stiles elbows him playfully. The most recent loss is at home, and that always hurts the worst. Some of the team walks to their cars together, in the newly completed private parking garage. No more fans after games, much to Derek’s pleasure.

Stiles is jostling Scott and Isaac, chirping them and trying to cheer them up, when someone calls his name. He turns around quickly, but doesn’t see anyone right away. When he goes to keep walking though, he hears it again. “Stiles, don’t act like you can’t see me!” He whips around this time, and sees someone coming out from behind a pillar. “Oh there you go baby,” Matt coos, “good to see you again!” Stiles turns back around, speed walking away. Scott chases after him, grabbing his shoulder.

“Stiles? Stiles, who is that guy?” Matt laughs, following the group.

“They don’t know about me Stiles? Not ashamed of your past, are you?” Stiles shakes Scott off, walking faster.

“Let’s just get out of here,” he mumbles, but he’s shaking now. Derek sees, and moves towards him, but not before Matt calls out again.

“Come on baby, don’t act like you aren’t happy to see me!” Stiles freezes on the spot, his anxiety kicking in. He feels his chest tightening, his fingers tingling, and he’s starting to get dizzy. The guys catch up to him, and Derek puts his arm around his shoulder.

“Stiles,” he says under his breath, “come on, let’s go.” Stiles tries to breathe, tries to move, but he can’t. He feels like someone’s pressing the air out of his lungs. “Stiles,” Derek says again, firm this time. Stiles tries to grasp onto that. Matt’s getting closer though.

“Let’s catch up, Stiles. I miss you.” This time, Stiles face screws up in pain, a sharp pain hitting his chest. Jackson takes one look at his expression and starts walking towards Matt.

“Jackson-” both Isaac and Scott start at the same time, but he waves them off, and inserts himself into Matt’s space.

“I think it’s time to shut your mouth, man,” Jackson tells him, puffing his chest out and looking down on the guy, who has a smirk plastered on his face.

“Oh, I don’t know, let’s ask Stiles if he wants me to keep talking or not.” Derek pulls on Stiles’ shoulders harshly.

“Stiles,” he tells him, “let’s go. Come on. We have to move.” Stiles looks at Derek and tries to steady his breathing, focusing on Derek’s eyes and the way his mouth looks when he says Stiles’ name.

“I said,” Jackson reasserts, “to shut the fuck up.” Matt laughs at him, and Derek tugs harder on Stiles.

“Let’s go Stiles. _Now._ ” Derek is saying his name again, and Stiles is watching his mouth, and he can take a few steps. A few steps won’t kill him.

Stiles lets Derek move him, going forward. As he does, Matt says, “Oh don’t be like that honey, don’t you-” and that’s it. Jackson rocks him in the face. Stiles can hear Matt’s nose break, the sharp intake of breath, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Now that Stiles is moving, he just keeps going, speeding up until he’s practically running. Derek’s hands never leave his body, and soon he’s on the next level of the garage, out of site of Matt.

He doubles over, holding onto his knees and forcing himself to breathe. Focus. He tries to ground himself, focusing on Derek’s hand rubbing his back and the breathing he can recognize as Isaac and Scott’s. He finally stands up straight, massaging the feeling back into his fingertips. Just like that, Derek’s a few feet away, looking frantically from Isaac to Scott, but neither of them noticed anything strange.

Jackson comes around the corner at a jog, stopping close to Stiles. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey man, he’s gone.” Stiles nods a few times, breathing slowly.

“Yeah,” he says back, nodding again and looking up at Jackson. “Yeah, no, thank you. I appreciate it.” Jackson half smiles at him before backing away, giving Stiles his space. Stiles takes it happily, backing away from everyone a bit, because his car is right there.

“I’m gonna...” He looks down at his feet, and he feels guilty. Because he should be thankful, thankful for his teammates and his friends standing up for him, being there for him. But he needs to leave, go home, curl up in a ball, and-

“Of course, man,” Scott tells him, cutting short his train of thought. “Go home. Let us know if you need anything.” Isaac and Jackson mumble their agreements, and Derek just nods. Stiles meets his eyes, and Derek bites his lower lip. He looks like he’s trying to say something with his eyes, but Stiles doesn’t get it. He just thanks the guys carefully, and gets into his car.

~

Stiles doesn’t even have time to get to his bedroom to lie down, let alone curl up on his couch, before someone’s pounding on his door. He knows who it is before he gets to the entryway, but he still feels a sense of relief when he sees Derek through the window.

When he lets him in, Derek steps through the doorway and kicks the door closed behind him, but then he just... stares. He looks at Stiles like he isn’t sure what to do with him. When Stiles thinks about it, he realizes it’s probably confusing, trying to figure out if he should hug Stiles, or keep his distance, or whatever other options there may be.

So Stiles takes the initiative, closing the distance and pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him in and rubbing his back. Stiles just breathes, until the only thing he can smell is Derek’s stupid “manly” shampoo, and the hint of leather from his new car. He doesn’t even realize he was crying until he pulls back and Derek’s shoulder is wet. “I’m sor-” he tries, but Derek shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. _You’re_ okay, Stiles,” Derek tells him, and he looks so uncomfortable. He looks like he’s scared of saying the wrong thing, like he’s ready to run away at a moments notice if Stiles asks him to leave. But most importantly, he looks like he cares.

So Stiles pulls on his hand, and walks them over to the couch. He turns on the TV and finds old horror movie, and looks over at Derek. Derek’s wringing his hands, sitting with his back completely straight, and glancing back and forth between the TV and Stiles like one of them is going to explode. Stiles just sighs, lifting Derek’s arm up and settling himself under it. “This okay?” Derek looks down at him, mouth hanging open, but he collects himself quickly.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, smiling at Stiles.

When the movie is over, Stiles is drooling all over Derek, and Derek’s arm is completely numb. He looks down at Stiles, and even though Derek tries not to, smiles fondly at him. Derek gently slides away, lowering Stiles’ head onto a pillow. He grabs the blanket off of the back of the couch, covering Stiles with it before he leaves. As an afterthought, he finds a pad of post its and leaves a note for stiles on his coffee table.

**call me if you need anything  
\- D**


	6. Chapter 6

The team starts winning again, and it seems like they’re on the fast track to the playoffs. No one dares to say it out loud though, because Derek’s superstitious. Once, Isaac messed up Derek’s pre-game routine, so Derek hit a puck right into his balls. In the locker rooms. With no cup. Needless to say, the team has been pretty careful not to mess with his beliefs again.

One thing changes in Derek’s routine though. He starts picking Stiles up on the way to practice. It makes sense, Stiles’ house is on the way to the center, but they never talk about it. Just one day, Stiles walks out to his car, and Derek is already sitting there in the driveway. He gets in the car with a huge smile on his face, and Derek just grunts at him. No hello, no nothing. So Stiles just turns on the radio, finds some catchy pop music, and sings at the top of his lungs. Derek tries not to smile. He fails.

The team doesn’t think twice when they walk into the locker room together, because sometimes people just run into each other in the parking garage. After practice, Lydia and Isaac see them getting into Derek’s car together. Derek just mumbles “economical,” and get’s into the drivers seat. Isaac shrugs off the explanation, but Lydia winks at Stiles. He expected as much.

It’s probably just a leftover quirk from being the class clown in highschool, but when Coach Finstock and Chris Argent - the team’s General Manager - invite themselves to Stiles’ house for dinner, he thinks he’s in trouble. So he tells Derek as much, frantic and hurried after practice. Derek just shakes his head at him.

“It’ll be fine, Stiles,” he assures him, rolling his eyes dramatically. “If you were ‘in trouble,’ Coach would have just chewed you out on the ice.”

“You know, one day your eyes are going to get stuck like that,” Stiles tells him, walking towards the car. “You’re not taking this seriously enough.” Derek shakes his head, getting in the car and starting it. He waits until Stiles buckles his seatbelt to say anything else.

“You’re overreacting.” He takes a minute to look at his lap and think. Stiles doesn’t say anything because Derek is frowning and the lines in his forehead are showing, and it’s best to just leave him be when that happens. When he looks back up, he sighs, and speaks slowly. “I could... I could come? If you want. I don’t think they’d mind.”

“Oh thank _god._ Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.” The corners of Derek’s mouth perk up a bit.

~

“How am I supposed to time this so everything is done at the same time?! I hate- OW!” Stiles rushes to the sink, running cold water over his burn. He should really stop talking to himself. It’s distracting. He almost jumps out of his skin when the doorbell rings, and then he checks the clock and - FUCK, they’re early. But it’s just Derek, wearing a lavender dress shirt and carrying a bottle of wine. Stiles cracks up.

“Purple? Are you being _serious?!_ ” He takes the wine out of a scowling Derek’s hands, and leads him back into the kitchen.

“It’s lavender,” he grumbles. Stiles just winks.

“Same thing.” He gestures for Derek to go sit in the living room, and finishes up dinner just as the bell rings again. Chris and Coach both shake his land, and he leads them to the dining room, where neither of them seem surprised to see Derek.

Apparently Stiles timed dinner correctly, or everyone’s being polite, because they clear their plates. He’s pretty proud of himself, but it’s overshadowed by nerves. They’ve been making small talk, which is fine, but Stiles has _no_ idea why they’re here. He’s starting to get anxious, when Chris finishes his wine and clears his throat. Stiles’ attention snaps to the GM, waiting.

“Stilinski, thank you for having us for dinner,” Chris starts, professional, and with a smile painted on his face. Stiles starts praying that it isn’t fake. “It’s been great to get to know you a little bitter. But, we do have some business to attend to.” Stiles just nods, expecting him to go on, but he stays silent. Derek kicks him under the table.

“Oh, ah. What business?”

“We’d like to talk about your contract.” Stiles’ throat seizes up, because his contract is short as it is. He looks to Finstock for some backup, but he’s is just looking at Chris, nodding slowly. Stiles forces himself to breathe just as Chris continues. “How would you feel about an extension?” Stiles chokes on air, just a little bit. It takes a minute to recover. Finstock and Chris are smirking at him, and Derek is shaking his head.

“I- I, of course. I mean, yeah, an extension is always a good thing. I mean, especially now...” Derek has kicked him again. “Yes. Yes, I feel good about an extension,” he finishes, trying to sound calm. Chris’ smile widens.

“That’s wonderful.”

Two hours later, Victoria has arrived and combed through every inch of Stiles’ new contract. Stiles is thinking about screaming from all the nitpicking when Victoria announces that it all looks good. Stiles snaps back into attention. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Victoria tells him, looking bored. “Everything’s in order.”

“Great!” He grabs the nearest pen and asks, “Where do I sign?”

He texts the entire team as soon as Chris, Coach, and Victoria leave.

**8 yr contract extension. can’t get rid of me yet!**

His phone blows up thirty seconds later, and soon he and Derek are hailing a cab to the team’s favorite bar. “You know,” Stiles tells Derek as they settle into the backseat, “I’m pretty sure this means I’m more valuable to the team than you.” Derek elbows him in the side.

“I’m the captain, idiot.” Stiles just grins.

“ _My_ contract is _longer_ than yours,” he teases, poking Derek’s shoulder.

~

The bar is packed. Stiles sticks to a single beer, because they have morning skate the next day. Scott and Isaac keep trying to get him to dance with the girls they’re buying shots for. Derek crinkles his nose at every one, and turns down the guys Danny and Ennis pick out for him. Lydia shows up eventually and saves Stiles, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the center of the bar.

“If Derek kills me for this, you have to make sure my funeral is perfect,” she insists, kissing Stiles on the cheek. “Congratulations love, you get to see my beautiful face for eight more years.” He laughs and twirls her around.

“You’re the lucky one. You’d be subjected to broken English if it weren’t for me.” She laughs, happy and high pitched, and snatches his beer from his hand, chugging the rest of it. The song ends.

“Yes, well, that’s the end of my rescue mission. Back to the boys you go,” she tells him, shoving him playfully. Allison shows up at her side, whisking her away.

Stiles goes to the bathroom instead, he needs a breather. Too many people, that’s the only downside of bars. That and ten dollar shots.

On the way back to the front, he only gets a few steps away from the bathroom before someone’s pulling on his arm. He’s yanked to the corner, and held there with a forearm across his chest. Matt grins at him. “Hey there, Stiles.”

Stiles tries to break away, but Matt’s got both of Stiles’ wrists in the hand not holding him against the wall. He leans in to whisper in Stiles’ ear. “You know, it really hurt when you ignored me the other day. You didn’t forget about me this fast, did you?”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Stiles snarls back. “Did you follow me across the country?” Matt laughs happily, loud and sharp in Stiles’ ear so that he flinches away.

“Of course I did, baby. We can’t be together if you’re too far away.” Stiles tries to headbutt him, but Matt pulls his face back just in time. Stiles doesn’t know what else to say. He’s starting to freeze. He know he should be yelling, or kicking, or something. But the pain in his chest is coming back. It’s hard to breathe. And Matt is just laughing at him, smiling away, whispering in his ear. “I love you.” “I miss you.” “You know you miss me.” Soon, Stiles can’t even understand anymore. He’s just doing his best not to pass out, not to let his lungs run out of air.

Then the laughing stops. Matt is on the floor, and he’s taken a table and half a dozen bottles of beer down with him. Derek is in front of Stiles, both of his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, and he’s saying his name. Over and over again. Stiles tries to focus on that, tries to hear his name, he really does. But Derek is too close, everything is too close, and he can’t handle this right now.

He sees Matt stand up and run towards the front of the bar, bypassing the team before they realize what’s happening. Stiles looks back at Derek, and tries to focus again, but everything is hot and terrifying, and he really can’t do this. So he runs too.

~

Stiles can hear Derek banging on his door, calling his name. Derek doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t say please, or ask Stiles to let him in. He just says “Stiles,” over and over again. Stiles isn’t watching the clock, so he doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours later when he hears Derek’s car start, when he hears Derek drive away.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles is completely content with pretending the night at the bar didn’t happen. Luckily for him, the team doesn’t know what happened, or if they do, they aren’t saying anything. And Derek isn’t pushing it. Sometimes he looks like he wants to. Like two days after the fact, when he picks Stiles up for practice and just sits in the driveway for a few minutes, staring at his knees. Stiles jiggles his legs around until Derek sighs and starts driving.

Stiles flinches when Boyd checks him into the boards, and has to take a few moments to work his anxiety down when Isaac shoulders him on the bench when he isn’t looking. Derek watches him all day from across the ice, but keeps his distance. When Lydia pulls him aside to go over his stats, she notices how tense he is, and the way his eyes keep shifting. She touches his forearm gently, bringing him back to the present.

“Calm down, Stiles. It’s just practice.”

~

The Wolves have a long roadtrip ahead of them. By the time Stiles settles onto the plane next to Scott, he’s had the time to calm down. He’s safe here, with his team, flying away from Matt. The only thing he has to worry about is his game. Stopping pucks, taking names, that whole thing.

Then, Stiles gets slammed into the ice by 210 pounds of straight muscle. When his ears stops ringing he answers all of the refs questions, and he knows he doesn’t have a concussion. But there’s blood running down his cheek, so they pull him for the second period. It’s by far the worst twenty minutes the Wolves have seen this season.

“This is fucking SHIT,” he screams at Finstock ten minutes and two goals into the second, “I’m FINE!” Finstock pushes his shoulder, making him sit back down on the bench.

“I can’t let you go out there and bleed on the ice, Stilinski,” Finstock tells him, but it sure looks like he wants to. He’s already shaking his head, and by the end of the second, the Wolves are down 3-0.

“Useless old man,” Stiles grumbles under his breath on the way to the locker room. Gerard shoots the world’s most intense death at him. Derek walks over to Stiles and grabs his chin, moving his face to look at his stitches.

“You’re done bleeding,” he grunts. Stiles pulls away.

“Yeah, thanks Captain Obvious.” Derek rolls his eyes and goes to get some water.

The Wolves pick it up and score twice in the third period, but it’s too little too late. No one talks in the locker room, and the bus ride back to the hotel is just as stoic. All Stiles has to do to get Derek to open the door for the team to review tapes is give the peephole some serious puppy dog eyes.

~

When Stiles gets hit the exact same way the next game, the team doesn’t take it so lightly. Ennis slams the guy into the boards, holding him there with an arm to his neck and screaming at him until a ref pulls them apart.

He doesn’t get pulled this time, though. Stiles almost punches the ref asking him questions in the face out of principle. If he says he doesn’t have a concussion, he _doesn’t have a concussion._ Later, Isaac tells him that’s exactly what people with concussions say.

The player gets checked a dozen times in the third period alone, and Derek hooks the guy right around the stomach. He gets two minutes for it, but it doesn’t affect the game much, because Stiles makes it a shutout. The Wolves win 2-0, and it’s a nice slap in the face to whoever decided hurting goalies on purpose was a thing.

Derek pulls him aside in the locker room, checking his face again. Stiles knocks his hand away and grins. “Don’t worry Sourwolf, they couldn’t make me any less cute if they tried.”

~

The third time is the last straw. Stiles isn’t an idiot, so when he pushes the guy off of him he doesn’t drop his gloves, just rips his mask off to scream “WHAT THE FUCK?!” He probably should have taken note that Deucalion was the one that slammed him, though, because before he can even finish his sentence he’s taking a fist to the face. Hard. It’s a one hit KO, and he’s lucky as hell that Jackson’s there to catch him before his head smacks into the ice.

Derek isn’t even on ice when it happens, but before anyone else can get to Deucalion, Derek’s got blood all over his hands. It takes Ennis, Boyd, and two refs to end the fight, and Derek spends the rest of the third period in the box. When the horn blows (announcing the Wolves loss), Derek practically runs to the medical room.

Stiles is just coming too, grunting and trying to sit up, barely catching the icepack as it falls off of his face. “Stiles,” Derek breathes out, and the nurse nods casually in Derek’s direction as a hello.

“Oh, he’s fine. He’ll just have a black eye is all.”

“Thanks Melissa,” Derek says, taking the chair next to Stiles’ cot and holding the icepack himself. “How you feeling?” Stiles groans, flopping back down.

“Like I just got punched in the face.” Derek forces out a laugh.

“You should see the other guy.”

“Yeah, you really should,” Scott chimes in from the doorway. Half of the team is standing there, peeking in. “Derek got blood all over him. I told you you’re the favorite.”

“Shut up McCall,” Derek barks at him. Stiles laughs, and it hurts a little, but he’s glad to be conscious - conscious with Derek holding an icepack over his eye.

~

When they get back to the hotel, Stiles runs down the hallway to Derek’s room before the rest of the team can make it there for their ritual. He bangs on the door until Derek lets him in, looking frantic. “What the hell is going on, Stiles?!” Stiles groans, sits down on the bed, stands back up, and paces until Derek grabs his shoulders to keep him still. “ _Stiles,_ ” he growls, “what?”

“I...” Stiles looks at his shoes. “I just.. have a question.” Derek cocks his head to the side, waiting. Stiles looks up at him, bites his lip, and looks back down. Derek goes frantic again, shaking him slightly.

“Just ask me already,” he insists, low and firm, and extremely concerned. Stiles wrings his hands, and finally looks Derek in the eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Do I look sexy with a black eye?” He grins and ducks away before Derek can give him another one.


	8. Chapter 8

The roadtrip ends with a majority of losses, and Finstock isn’t having it. He sits the team down before practice on home ice to tell them one of his trademark stories. He seems to think they motivate the guys, but really? They’re just something to joke about at the bar. In all honesty, Stiles usually tunes him out when he says the name “Greenberg.” Today is no exception.

Jackson pulls him aside during a water break. “How you feelin’ man?” Stiles shrugs, chugging his bottle.

“Same as always, why?” Jackson elbows him, a bit too hard.

“Just checking on you,” he calls as he skates away. “You had a tough trip!”

Derek’s next to him within 5 seconds, dropping his voice. “You okay?” Stiles blinks at him, confused.

“Why is everyone concerned with me today?!” Derek’s face goes passive.

“Just thought he elbowed you a bit hard,” he mumbles, turning to go. Stiles grabs his elbow.

“Hey, hey! You were watching? That’s.. Creepy, actually, that’s really creepy.” Derek scoffs and pulls off. “CREEPY AND CUTE!” Stiles calls after him. The entire team looks at him in confusion, and Derek shoots him a death glare. Stiles doesn’t mind, he just hums to himself and gets back in the net.

~

Lydia insists on driving Stiles home that day, literally pushing Derek out of her way and grabbing Stiles’ forearm. “You hog him,” she tells Derek seriously, “good captain learn to share.” Derek glares, and she giggles, switching over to Russian. “He’s so _adorable_ when he’s jealous, isn’t he?!” Stiles grins, looking Derek up and down.

“Absolutely,” he says, letting Lydia lead him out the door. “And he probably thinks we’re talking about his ass,” he adds, turning around to wave goodbye to a very unamused Derek.

“So, how _are_ things going with Derek anyway?” Lydia asks about halfway home, turning down her Russian pop music. Stiles sighs.

“I’ve told you, there aren’t any _things_ going on with Derek.” He reaches to turn the volume back up, but she smacks his hand away.

“I’m not an idiot, Stiles,” she tells him. “Just because it isn’t official, doesn’t mean there isn’t a thing.” She turns to him at a stoplight, her grin going sly. “How is he in bed?”

“We haven’t even _kissed,_ ” Stiles squeals, batting at her arm. She winks at him.

“Soon enough.”

~

Stiles is staring into his refrigerator - trying to figure out what bland meal from his bland NHL diet to make for dinner - when his doorbell rings. Oh, good, maybe someone sent him a free pizza. Anything is better than grilled chicken for the fifth consecutive day.

But Derek’s standing at the door, and he doesn’t have a pizza. He just has a sour expression on his face, like he’s thinking way to hard about a play that didn’t go quite the way he wanted it to. “Uh, come in?” Stiles holds the door open, and Derek walks in without a word. Stiles follows him to the living room.

Derek turns around, and he looks nervous. He starts pacing, just like Stiles had in the hotel room, so Stiles laughs. “You would look very sexy with a black eye, Derek, but I’ll always be the king of that fashion statement.” Derek snaps his head up at him.

“What the hell are you- oh. No, god no just _shut up_ for a minute.” Stiles sighs.

“Only said one thing,” he mumbles to himself, but Derek glares at him anyway. So he goes to get a glass of water, and when he comes back, Derek is sitting on the leg of his couch, watching him. “Am I allowed to speak now?” Derek stands, takes the glass, and puts it on the coffee table.

“In a minute,” he tells Stiles, and fumbles with his phone for a minute. Music starts playing, some song that’s popular on the radio, but it doesn’t qualify as terrible pop music. It’s slower and - oh. Derek is standing awfully close, and then his hand is on Stiles’ hip, and they’re dancing. Again. “We never celebrated your contract,” he tells Stiles quietly.

They just sway for a few minutes, and they still both have two left feet off the ice, and when the song changes they don’t change their rhythm. But Stiles has his head resting on Derek, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. Eventually, though, Derek pulls back a little. Just enough to look Stiles in the eyes.

“I would do anything for you,” he tells him. It’s low and gentle, even though no one is around to hear them. Stiles nods slowly.

“I could kiss you right now, and you’d kiss me back.” Derek shakes his head sharply.

“No.” Stiles pulls back more, a bit harshly, taken aback.

“What?” Derek smiles at him, more sweet than Stiles has ever seen him, and pushes his forehead to Stiles’.

“I want _you_ to be the one kissing back.”

Stiles has had his fair share of first kisses, and it’s safe to say almost all of them have been - technically speaking - better than this one. Derek kisses like he skates, a bit harsh and like he has to force himself not to take over completely. Derek’s nose even smashes into his. But when they pull apart, Stiles is grinning like he just won the Stanley cup, and Derek has a smile of sweet relief on his face.

Stiles kisses him again, gentle and sweet and slow, until Derek is the one that pulls back to take a breath. When he recovers, Stiles backs him against the wall and slams them together, biting Derek’s lip and licking into his mouth. Derek sighs, tilting his head so Stiles has full access, and clinging to the back of his shirt.

Stiles forces himself to stop for long enough to pull Derek over to the couch and sit him down, straddling him. He kisses Derek until he’s dizzy, until his lips are sore, until his thighs are numb from sitting in the same position. Derek’s arms stay faithfully wrapped around his waist, holding him close and tight and _safe._

When he can’t stand to move his mouth for another second, Stiles pulls back, pressing their foreheads back together and looking Derek in the eyes. They smile at each other again, then Stiles drops his head against Derek’s neck, pressing lazy kisses to it with the grin still plastered on his face. Derek just tightens his hold, rubbing his cheek against the side of Stiles’ head and sighing happily. “Not such a Sourwolf now, huh?” Derek chuckles.

Stiles isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but eventually Derek tugs him back a bit by the shoulder to tell him they have a game in the morning. So Stiles walks him to the door, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and a very drawn out goodbye kiss. “Don’t get distracted staring at me during the game tomorrow,” Stiles jokes, poking him in the stomach. Derek shakes his head, pulling away.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpans, but he cracks and smiles before he can turn away completely.

Stiles runs for his phone the second the door closes after Derek; he needs to text Lydia.

**it's like you're psychic or something**


	9. Chapter 9

“Stiles!” Lydia practically runs into the locker room the next day as the guys are getting ready for the game. “Tell me _everything!_ Is he a good kisser?” She looks Derek up and down, who’s staring at her like he wants to stab her. “Do his muscles ripple while you’re having sex?” She winks at Derek before turning back to Stiles. “Answer me!” Stiles laughs.

“After the game Lydia, I have to focus,” he tells her, and she pouts. When she walks away, Derek appears at Stiles side.

“Were you two just talking about me?” He growls in Stiles ear. Stiles smacks him away.

“No, of course not, now get your head in the game!” Derek grunts and walks away, while Stiles starts humming a tune from High School Musical.

~

The team has won the past couple of games, so when Stiles shows up at Derek’s house one night, he’s greeted by a smiling face. Okay, a not-frowning face. Same thing, when it comes to Derek. “I brought movies!”

An hour later, Stiles is straddling Derek and Derek has both hands on his ass. Derek’s teeth are scraping against his neck and he’s sighing into the air. “Derek,” he whimpers when his captain starts sucking on his neck, “careful.” All they need is for him to walk into the locker room with a hickey. Derek pulls back, putting his hand on the back of Stiles neck.

“Yeah, okay.” He pulls Stiles face to his and kisses him fiercely, until Stiles runs out of breath and pulls back himself. He squirms for a moment, switching his position so he’s sitting on the arm of the chair instead of straddling his - boyfriend? Captain? Whatever.

“Derek,” he tells him, grabbing ahold of his hand, “there’s something we should talk about.” Derek moans, throwing his head back against the chair.

“Wonderful,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm.

“Oh, just listen, would you?” Derek looks at his face and takes in how serious the situation is for a minute before nodding slowly.

Derek sits patiently - his face practically stoic - while Stiles tells him about Matt. He doesn’t nod, or try to cut in, or anything at all. Which is good, because Stiles thinks if anything broke his concentration right now, he’d never finish the story. He tells him about the way Matt hit him, and the things he made him do. The way he made him feel like he was useless, and how he’s been working with his therapist and on his own to feel okay with himself again. Then he gets to the part that applies directly to he and Derek’s relationship.

“So, you see, I’m just.. you know. Not ready, to do that thing couples do. You know, sex, not because I don’t trust you, I’m just not all the way comfortable with this. And it’s scary, you know, because -”

“Stiles.” His mouth snaps shut and he tilts his head at Derek. “I know. It’s okay. Everything is okay.” Stiles nods, sliding off the arm of the chair and into Derek’s lap. He leans his head against Derek’s chest, sighing happily.

“Thank you. For understanding. Or, you know, trying to.” Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, squeezing gently.

“You say ‘you know’ a lot when you’re being serious,” Derek tells him softly. “And thank you, for telling me.” Stiles nods against his chest, and Derek holds him there until they both fall asleep.

~

The worst way to start a roadtrip is with a loss. But the best way to get over a loss is with a night out. So, as usual, Stiles gets the job of talking Derek into it. He may have work cut out for him.

Derek lets him in without a fight. “Where are the guys?” Stiles brushes past him, flopping down on Derek’s bed.

“They’re getting ready,” he tells him, grinning up at Derek.

“Getting ready for...?” Stiles laughs at him, reaching to pull Derek down on the bed next to him.

“We’re going out tonight.” Derek sits up immediately.

“ _We_ are not. We have tapes to review.” Stiles groans, grabbing both of Derek’s hands.

“Come _on,_ it’ll be fun. We could all use some fun.” Derek pulls away, standing up.

“No. Tapes. Go get the guys.” Stiles sighs, standing up and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. He kisses him gently, licking at his lips until Derek sighs too, opening his mouth slightly for Stiles. Stiles kisses him with more intensity, and when he pulls back he gives Derek the puppy dog eyes.

“Please?” Derek groans, pushing away from him, but he doesn’t say no.

~

“How do you get him to do these things?” Isaac asks Stiles, handing him a beer. Stiles grins.

“I’m adorable. It’s a curse and a blessing.” Scott elbows him from his other side.

“Not fair, dude. If I looked twelve I could probably get whatever I wanted, too.” Scott chugs his beer, looking down the bar at Derek. “Now you just have to get him to enjoy himself.” Stiles laughs.

“Even I can’t pull that off.” Isaac smirks.

“Scared of a challenge?” Stiles pushes off the bar, taking his drink with him.

“Well, since you put it that way.”

~

Several bottles later, Stiles is pulling Derek onto the dance floor. “I don’t dance, Stiles,” Derek snarls, but there’s no real fight in it.

“You’ve danced with me before,” Stiles tells him, pulling him close and whispering in his ear. Derek smiles, a loose and happy drunken smile.

“That was different,” he tells Stiles, but he’s wrapping his arms around the goalie and moving to the music. Stiles is happy for all the times he’s danced with his teammates, so that this doesn’t look out of place. Or at least, more out of place than Derek having fun.

Derek turns Stiles so they’re chest-to-back, and their dance turns dirtier, hotter, until Stiles can barely breathe. Derek leans down and to whisper in his ear. “I’m kind of glad you talked me into this.” Stiles tilts his head back and rests it on Derek’s shoulder to answer.

“Haven’t you heard? I only have good ideas.” Derek spins him back around so that their foreheads are almost touching.

“One of my favorite things about you,” he mumbles. Stiles does something particularly enticing with his hips, and Derek sighs gently. He stares at Stiles, biting his bottom lip and looking conflicted.

“What-” Stiles starts, but he’s cut off when Derek kisses him. He can’t help himself, he leans into it. But only for a few seconds, and then he pulls back, glancing around frantically. In the corner, he sees Lydia and Isaac watching him. Lydia is shooting him a warning with her eyes, so he takes a deep breath and a large step away from Derek. “I’m really sorry,” he says quietly, and smacks Derek across the face.

Derek puts his hand to his face in shock, and Stiles is happy they’re surrounded by people or else they would have drawn more attention. “I have to go,” he tells Derek, turning around and rushing towards the door.

In the corner, Lydia turns to Isaac. “I take Stiles,” she tells him, “and you take Derek. We have them make up. Was probably an honest mistake.” Isaac looks at her like she’s insane.

“Lydia, did you see what just _happened?_ This is kind of a big-” She grips his shoulder tightly.

“No. Small deal, only big deal if we let turn into one. Must fix. Imagine them fighting on ice, will lose every game.” Isaac groans, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah okay. Derek’s just really drunk. I’ll go talk to him.” He starts weaving his way through the crowd.

Lydia finds Stiles outside, hailing a cab back to the hotel. She slides in next to him before he can close the door. “Lydia, oh thank gosh,” he says frantically, “what am I supposed to do? Who else saw, how-” She presses a hand lightly over his mouth.

“Russian, Stiles. It’s easier to help if I understand you.” He takes a deep breath when she drops her hand, making himself focus.

“Were you and Isaac the only ones that saw us?” She nods gently. “Good. What do we do about Isaac?”

“He’s getting Derek. I’m going to put you in a room together, and you’ll pretend to make up. Say it was the alcohol. An isolated incident. I convinced Isaac to think of the team.” Stiles nods along with her words.

“Right, yeah. What would I do without you?” She laughs sharply.

“Cry like a baby.”

~

Stiles has to sit outside of Derek’s room with Lydia for 45 minutes before Isaac and Derek step off the elevator. Stiles stands up quickly, brushing his knees out of habit. Derek grunts at him, shoulders him out of the way, and opens the door. Isaac pats him on the shoulder and says “good luck” before he follows Derek in.

“I can’t believe you hit me,” Derek growls as soon as the door closes. Stiles groans.

“I can’t believe you _kissed_ me.”

“I kiss you all the _time,_ ” Derek tells him, almost at a snarl.

“Yes but not in bars, Derek. We’re lucky only Lydia and Isaac saw! And we’re lucky Lydia has Isaac whipped like everyone else, so she could convince him to help her fix this.”

~

In the hallway, Isaac scoffs, pulling his ear away from the door. He is not - wait. _All the time?!_ “Isaac,” Lydia snarls, coming out of her room, “what the hell you doing?!” Isaac looks up at her, doe eyed.

“Eavesdropping?” She should kill him, but she knows it’s probably too late. She might as well play along, so she kneels next to Isaac, pushing her ear to the door too.

~

“I was drunk,” Derek deadpans. “Which is your fault to begin with.”

“Well _excuse_ me for wanting you to have fun!” Derek growls at him under his breath.

“Can you blame me?” Stiles groans.

“Of course I -” But then Derek is right there, in his space, mouth inches from his. He looks him in the eyes, and his anger deflates.

“No,” he says softly, taking the final step towards Derek, “no I can’t.” He snakes his arms around Derek’s waist. “I hate only kissing you when we’re locked in our rooms or houses.” Derek sighs, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss to Stiles’ lips.

“Me too.” Stiles wants to kiss him again, and again and again until he can’t think straight. But they have an early flight, and Lydia will want to talk to him before he goes to sleep. So he pulls back slowly. “What do we tell Isaac and Lydia?” Derek asks as Stiles moves towards the door.

“That it was a mistake, and we made up. No big -” Stiles pulls the door open, and Lydia and Isaac quite literally fall into the room. He looks down at them for a minute before he groans. “Wonderful, guys, just wonderful.” Derek moves around Stiles, picking Isaac up by the arm and walking him over to the bed. Lydia stands up, readjusts her dress, and closes the door. She joins Isaac quietly on the bed.

“I know nothing,” she tells Stiles in Russian. “He just figured out you two were lying to him, let’s not let him know that I was too.” She tips her head slightly towards Isaac.

“What are you saying?” Derek looks furious. “You know what, no, why the hell were you two outside my door?” Isaac plays with his hands, and Lydia whistles teasingly. “I’m not kidding!” Lydia sighs gently, putting her hands up in surrender.

“Were just checking, want to make sure you make up,” Lydia tells him innocently. “Bad for team if you two fight.” Isaac nods eagerly in agreement. Derek groans.

“You tell no one,” he snarls. They both swear they won’t, and then Derek points grimly at the door. “Leave before I kill you.” Isaac practically runs from the room, but Lydia stops to put her hand on Stiles’ arm.

“I won’t let anyone else find out,” she tells him gently. “Don’t worry.”

When the door closes behind them, Derek grunts, sitting on the bed. “They’re going to tell everyone.” Stiles shakes his head, smiling weakly down at Derek.

“Lydia might... Well, she’s known for awhile. She hasn’t told anyone.” Derek jumps up.

“STILES!” Stiles runs forward to kiss Derek quickly on the cheek, before getting out of the room as fast as possible.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This party is completely fictional, it isn’t pulled from the hockey world! I just wanted a fancy event of sorts.

“Lydia, I look terrible in green,” Stiles whines from the dressing room, buttoning his jacket and opening the door. She laughs, spinning him by the shoulders with an approving smile on her face.

“Yes, well. I look great in green, and we have to match,” she tells him, pushing him back through the door. “It’s perfect. Buy it.” He groans again, shrugging the jacket off and slinging it to the other side for Lydia to grab.

“Remind me again why Allison can’t be your date?”

“She has a meeting. I’d go with Erica, but Allison would love nothing more than an excuse to claw her face off.” Lydia goes into the room next to Stiles, slipping into the dress she’s had on hold for months. Stiles groans.

“And that’s why she’s going with my boyfriend.”

“Correct.” She comes out of her stall with a twirl, curtsying for Stiles. He grins.  
 “At least I’ll have the most gorgeous date in the world.” She kisses both of his cheeks excitedly.

“Flattery will get you _everywhere._ ”

~

Stiles fixes his bow tie nervously as Lydia guides him towards the photographers. “You’re just going to mess it up,” she hisses in his ear. And then, “smile!” She turns his body the way she wants it and keeps a grin pasted on her face for the cameras. He does his best to keep up.

“You did fine,” Lydia tells him as they walk away and into the building. “Hows your anxiety?” He takes a few deep breaths while she squeezes his arm.

“It’s not bad.” He takes the champagne offered to him and let’s Lydia lead the way to Isaac and Scott. They both introduce their dates politely, though to be honest both girls seem a bit stuck up. Isaac’s date leans up to whisper in his ear in French, and suddenly Stiles is glad he picked up on that language as well.

“Isn’t he gay?” Stiles raises his eyebrows, careful not to let on that he understands. Isaac’s face scrunches up angrily.

“That’s really none of your business, is it?” He tells her harshly. Stiles grins despite himself. He has good friends. Lydia squeezes his arm a bit tighter, bring his attention back to her. He follows her gaze to the front of the room, where Alan Deaton is standing on a small stage. Deaton clinks his glass and the whole room falls silent.

“Thank you all for coming,” Deaton begins, his trademark smile brighter than ever. Stiles has always found it a bit creepy. He continues on to the main point of the night - to thank all of the businessmen and businesswomen who make this team possible. He thanks each investor by name, sincere and convincing. When he raises his glass in cheers, the entire room claps and hollers.

Lydia promptly pulls him towards the dance floor, placing his hands in the perfect places and moving them in exact rhythm to the music. “Don’t you dare step on my feet,” she tells him with a small smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says distractedly. He’s spotted Erica and Derek across the room, and he suddenly realizes how much he hates the idea of Derek dancing with anybody else. Thankfully, Erica’s attempts to move him towards the dance floor seem to be futile. Lydia smacks him on the side of the head.

“Stop staring! One public incident is enough.” Stiles sighs, trying to focus on his feet moving the way he - the way _Lydia_ wants them to.

“I don’t understand why they have to be classified as incidents.” Lydia glances around them and quickly moves them a few feet to the left. Stiles looks over and realizes that she’s moved them away from another Russian who may have noticed what they were talking about. He grins at her. “Do I tell you enough how smart you are?” She smiles back.

“There’s no such thing as enough. And they’re incidents because teammates dating is frowned upon, Stiles. You know that.” He groans lightly.

“I need a drink.” She pulls back, grabbing his hand to lead him towards the refreshments table.

“That-” she tells him with a wink, “I can always do.”

~

Stiles manages to avoid Derek’s gaze for the entirety of the party. He just drinks his champagne until he’s feeling bubbly himself, and tries not to wish he could be dancing with Derek again. Lydia tries to keep him distracted, introducing him to the few Russian’s in the room so he can impress them with his accent. He does enjoy praise.

As he and Lydia are finally leaving, though, he looks towards Derek one last time, only to find himself being stared at. Erica is gazing at her nails at Derek’s side, obviously disappointed by the lack of attention. But Derek’s eyes are locked on Stiles, and he looks full of intent and - well, desire. Stiles can’t help it (he’s buzzed and twenty years old for God’s sake), he winks at Derek as he and Lydia walk out.

He can’t help keep the grin off of his face when Derek texts him: **i’ll say I left something at your place and have erica drop me off**

Lydia reaches over and smacks at his arm until Stiles tells her what the text says, and then her grin matches his. “Looks like your night just got better.”

~

Stiles paces back and forth while he waits for Derek. He’s anxious, sure, but more than that he’s excited. He and Derek have been together for awhile, and everything is going perfectly, and every time Derek has his mouth Stiles’ and a handful of his ass he wants it just a little bit more. There have been a lot of little bits. And to top it off they’re on a winning streak, and there’s no bigger turn on than that.

So when Derek knocks, Stiles is mid thought about holding Derek down and - oh, he really has to answer the door. Derek comes in quickly and closes the door behind him, but waits for Stiles to make the first move. He’s been doing that since Stiles told him about Matt, and it’s so reassuring. Stiles wants to kiss him sweetly for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he slams his mouth into Derek’s, kissing him hungrily for a minute before breaking off abruptly. “Stiles-” Derek starts, but Stiles just laughs, grabbing his hands and pulling him towards the stairs.

“We should get a room,” he deadpans, and Derek rolls his eyes. But he follows Stiles anyway, lets himself be pulled up the stairs and shoved into Stiles’ room. Before he can kiss Stiles again, though, he finds his shirt being unbuttoned feverishly.

“Stiles-” he starts again, but Stiles just captures his mouth, kissing him through the remainder of the work on his shirt. Stiles slides the shirt off of Derek’s shoulders, running his hand over his abs for a minute. Then he presses a kiss to Derek’s neck and smirks at him. Derek takes that as a cue, getting rid of Stiles’ clothing as quickly as possible while Stiles works off his pants.

The second they’re naked, Stiles pushes Derek back and onto the bed, crawling over him and kissing him viciously again. He kisses him until his lips are numb and Derek’s are bright red, then he smirks at Derek again, slipping down to kiss Derek’s chest and stomach. Derek groans, half out of pleasure and half of frustration, forcing himself not to buck his hips.

Derek _really_ groans, though, when Stiles slides further down to kiss the inside of Derek’s thigh. “Stiles,” he sighs out, and Stiles grins, kissing him again. He looks up at Derek, waiting to make eye contact before he wraps his hand around Derek’s dick. Derek’s breath catches, watching Stiles work his hand slowly.

And Stiles does just that for awhile. He twists his hand gently and slowly, occasionally dragging his thumb slowly over the head of Derek’s dick. He presses kisses to Derek’s hip and sucks a dark mark onto the inside of his thigh while Derek struggles to keep his breathing even. Eventually though, when Stiles puffs a slow hot breath on Derek’s dick, all patience is lost. “Stiles,” Derek says quietly, pushing his hips off the bed. Stiles giggles at him.

“Yeah, yeah okay.” So he slowly licks a line up Derek’s dick before taking him all the way into his mouth at once, humming around the base. Derek’s hips really do jerk uncontrollably this time, so Stiles uses his forearms to press him back into the bed firmly. He’s working his mouth up and down, licking at the tip when he pulls up and making _filthy_ noises around Derek when he swallows him down.

Soon, Derek is sighing and moaning, breathing out broken sentences and singular words. “God,” “Stiles,” “so good,” “please,” “perfect.” But Stiles still wants to do more, he wants to break Derek down and drive him crazy. So he slips his hands behind Derek’s knees and makes him bend them a bit. Derek looks down at him, trying to ask what Stiles is doing, but Stiles distracts him by taking his mouth away and jerking Derek fast and dirty. Derek’s head lulls back, and Stiles presses one of his fingers into his own mouth.

He slows his hand and says “Derek,” gently. Derek groans, lifting his head up to look at him. Stiles slowly moves his finger lower, behind Derek’s balls, resting it gently at his hole. He cocks his head to the side. “Can I?” Derek groans again, eagerly this time, nodding his head frantically. Stiles presses in slowly, because even though Derek is slick from the sloppy blowjob, there still isn’t lube. But Derek tilts his hips just right, and he’s relaxed, so Stiles presses all the way in easily, taking Derek back in his mouth as he does so.

“Fuck, _Stiles,_ ” Derek moans, trying to press down on his finger and up into his mouth at the same time. Stiles moans back around his dick, moving his finger and dick at the same pace, before slowly moving to add a second finger. Derek’s body is a little more resistant to this one, but soon Stiles is scissoring him open a bit, then curling his fingers just right to hit Derek’s prostate.

Stiles knows he’s got it when Derek jumps a little, whining low and dirty in his throat and bucking up into Stiles’ mouth frantically. Stiles doubles the pace of his mouth and hand, focusing on how fucking _hot_ Derek sounds moaning his name. He starts grinding his own hips against the bed, just for the friction because _Jesus_ that really is his name and Derek’s dick is in his mouth.

A minute later Derek is shoving at Stiles shoulder, telling him that he’s going to come and Stiles needs to get off but _fuck that._ He just curls his fingers more, pushes his cock harder against the bed, and hums around Derek’s dick while he comes. He swallows greedily, licking at Derek’s dick gently and pulling his fingers out slowly, reaching over to wipe them on the corner of his sheets.

Derek’s head swims for a minute, and when he can think somewhat clearly he grabs Stiles’ shoulders firmly. Derek pulls him up, and goes to flip him over but Stiles shakes his head frantically. “No, no, just-” He takes Derek’s hand and puts it on his dick, pressing his face into Derek’s neck with a groan. It only takes an embarrassingly short minute for Stiles to shudder and come all over Derek’s hand and stomach.

He collapses to the side, biting gently at Derek’s shoulder and sighing contentedly. Derek gives him a few seconds of peace before poking him in the side and asking “Washcloth?” roughly. Stiles sighs, waving his hand noncommittally. 

“In a minute,” he mumbles with a smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penguins fan here! Derek’s broken jaw was inspired by Sidney Crosby. (FYI to any fellow Penguins fans, I had a burning desire to involve mozzarella sticks, but I didn’t)

On top of the stressful job of hiding his boyfriend from the world while simultaneously playing the best hockey he possibly can, Stiles now has to control his sexual urges. Derek being the confusing douchebag that he is doesn’t make it much easier, either. He’ll kiss Stiles until he’s dizzy, shove his hands up under Stiles’ shirt to scratch at his back, and bite as his neck hard enough to make Stiles worry about coming into practice with a hickey. But whenever Stiles reaches for his belt, Derek will dump him back on the couch and walk away to get water, mumbling something about distractions.

At least Stiles has been able to talk Derek into enough mutual handjobs to keep him focused on what really matters - getting to the playoffs. Which they’re pretty much guaranteed to do; they’d have to lose every game to not make it. But the team can’t afford that mindset, so they play every game like their lives are on the line. They’re on a beautiful winning streak.

Everything’s going great, so it’s just a bit more painful to watch when Derek gets half of his teeth knocked out in the first period of a game. He falls to the ground right next to the Wolves own net, clutching his face and pulling his knees to his chest. Stiles is next to him immediately, snatching the towel from the ref and pressing it against Derek’s face himself. Derek groans, shaking off the ref trying to help him, and pushes himself to his feet. Stiles tries to follow him off the ice, but Isaac grabs his elbow. “Don’t,” Isaac whispers, “he’ll kill you if we lose.”

So they win. Stiles doesn’t let a single puck through, and Jackson scores the only goal of the game in overtime. Stiles bypasses everyone with a microphone, opting for the fastest shower of his life. He needs to get to Derek. Only - damnit, Derek drove him here, as usual. He turns to look for Lydia, but Isaac’s already grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the parking garage. Lydia’s waiting by her car, and she breaks the speed limit the entire way to the hospital. “Russian driving,” she tells him and Isaac, “good for emergencies.”

Stiles gets Derek’s room number from the front desk, and paces in front of the elevator like a mad man. “Will be okay,” Lydia says gently. “Is hockey player, is tough.” Isaac nods in agreement, but Stiles groans anyway.

The nurse tries to tell them “family only,” but Lydia curses at her in Russian abrasively until she’s scared off. Stiles sits down next to Derek’s bed and pokes his heavily sedated boyfriend in the side until his eyes flutter open. Derek tries to say something, but it comes out as a grunt; his jaw is wired shut. Isaac rubs his face and mutters something in French. Lydia shakes her head.

“Jesus,” Stiles says, grabbing ahold of one of Derek’s hands, “you look horrible.” Even drugged and half conscious, Derek manages to glare at him. He cracks a grin. “If I wasn’t the cute one before, I sure am now.” Derek’s eyes close again as the doctor comes in.

“My nurse told me we had some intruders,” he says. “I’m sorry, but family only.” Lydia rounds on him.

“Team is family,” she snaps. They argue for a few minutes while Isaac and Stiles let the team know that Derek is doing okay, and sneak a peak at Derek’s charts. Eventually, the doctor groans, overpowered. He tells them that Derek won’t be very responsive, but that they can stay. With a bit more grilling, he tells them what the outlook is. Derek will have to have his jaw wired shut for a couple of weeks, and then he’ll have to wait a bit longer to be able to play. With a jaw protector, of course. Isaac sighs.

“Wonderful, Jackson finally gets to make use of that A on his jersey.” When the doctor leaves, Isaac and Lydia decide to go home. Stiles refuses.

“I’m going to stay with him,” he tells them gently. “It’s not like he has family to check on him.” They nod solemnly, and promise to drop Derek’s car off. Isaac pulls Stiles out of his chair for a hug.

“When your boyfriend wakes up, tell him he’s gonna look badass without all those teeth.” Lydia just kisses Derek’s forehead and both of Stiles’ cheeks. Stiles settles down in the chair again, grabbing Derek’s hand and squeezing. He falls asleep sitting up, and he’ll have a kink in his neck the next morning. But it’s worth it to know that if Derek wakes up, he’ll see Stiles by his side.

~

The Wolves are losing as much as they’re winning without Derek. A fact which he expresses his intense anger for even with his jaw wired shut. He does a lot of obscene hand gestures and slams a lot of sticks while he watches practice, and throws a lot of gear in the locker room during games.

Honestly though, Derek looks just about as frustrated when they’re winning. Stiles can tell he wants to be on the ice with the team, so he tries to distract him as much as possible off the ice. He makes the least disgusting smoothies possible for Derek and let’s him pick which movies they watch.

Stiles’ new favorite hobby is blowing Derek after a tough loss. He lets Derek wordlessly chastise the team, let’s him throw his fits. Then when Derek drops him off (because even with a broken jaw Derek sticks to his routines), he’ll pull his injured captain into the house and slam him up against a wall. At first Derek kept hurting himself trying to moan, but now he just whimpers in the back of his throat while Stiles takes him down sucks him off until Derek slides down the wall and comes.

Derek gets his jaw un-wired slightly earlier than predicted, seemingly by the sheer power of will. If he was upset about not being able to play before, his anger has doubled now. The team’s just lucky he can’t scream at the top of his lungs yet, as that would involve opening his mouth all the way. And that’s frowned upon by Derek’s doctor.

So Stiles can kiss Derek now, but he has to hold back, keep it neat and proper and not bite at his lips for god’s sake because that’s just not okay. But it’s so good to hear Derek say his name when Stiles kisses his neck again, so nice when Derek groans out “oh god” when Stiles wraps his mouth around his dick.

The team starts winning again, and every day is a day closer to Derek playing again, and everything is good again. So good.

~

What isn’t good is the way Stiles get’s hit in one of their last games before the playoffs. It’s the same hit from months ago, and Stiles thought he was done with this shit. Obviously, he isn’t, and he promised himself he wouldn’t let this go if it ever happened again. So he doesn’t. When he sees it’s Deucalion again (seriously, someone should blind this guy or something), he flips them over, ripping Deucalion’s helmet and his own gloves off and punching him in the face. He gets some pretty good hits in - he’s almost positive he’s broken the guy’s nose again - before a ref pulls him off.

Jackson has to serve Stiles’ penalty, so the scoring responsibilities fall on Scott and his line for the last five minutes of play. The score is 0-0, and they manage to scape a win in the last thirty seconds with a sloppy goal. It was pure luck, really, and the entire team knows it. But what matters is that they won.

Apparently what matters to the team right now is a bit different than what matters to Derek. He storms into the locker room before Finstock is even away from the media on the ice.

“STILES!” That has _got_ to hurt his jaw. The entire team freezes, and suddenly there’s a bubble of empty space around Stiles, like he has the flu or something. Derek’s right in front of him a second later. “What the FUCK was that?” Stiles blinks at him, cocking his head to to the side.

“Uh, a win? Or did you mean the fight? Because that was, well, a fight,” he tells him, taking a slow step back. Derek looks furious, and he really doesn’t understand why. People fight all the time. Derek’s nostrils flare.

“That was one of the _stupidest_ things I’ve ever seen,” he snarls. Stiles scoffs.

“Derek you beat the shit out of-” Derek cuts him off abruptly.

“Yeah, I did. And I took MY OWN penalty. Jackson had to take yours. We’re already down a center because of my jaw, and you left the team vulnerable in THE LAST FIVE MINUTES WITH NO SCORE!” Stiles stands his ground, getting angry himself.

“Did you expect me to just TAKE it, Derek?”

“Yeah, I did. This is _exactly_ why rookies shouldn’t start! They’re too impulsive.”

“You started when you were eighteen!”

“Because I was talented _and_ responsible, Stilinski. Something you obviously aren’t!” You could hear a pin drop in the locker room after that. Stiles just presses his lips together, looks Derek in the eyes, and shakes his head. He turns around, snatching his bag and his pads from the bench, and storms out of the locker room. He knows it’s immature, but if he’s already irresponsible, why not, right?

Lydia shakes her head at Derek, muttering “idiot” under her breath and she runs after Stiles. She catches up to him after a minute, grabbing his elbow. He yanks it away.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he grunts at her, Russian forgotten.

“You can’t-” she starts, but he keeps walking, ignoring her. She groans. “At least let me drive home,” she calls, speed walking at his side. “Derek brought you.” He stops, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, yeah okay.” He follows her to the car, getting in and staring out the window the entire ride home. She knows better than to put the music on. When they get to his house, though, she locks the doors. “Let me go, Lydia. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t have to. Just try to calm down, yes? Derek an idiot sometimes.” She squeezes Stiles arms and unlocks the door. “He’s wrong, you know,” she adds in Russian. “You’re one of the most responsible people I’ve ever met.” He forces a smile before he gets out of the car and storms into his house.

Derek doesn’t show up at his door that night. He doesn’t call or text, and Stiles is fine with that. He doesn’t want to hear from him anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you not familiar with hockey, here’s a short summary of how the playoffs work. There are 4 rounds. In the quarterfinals, the top team from their conference (of which there are 2) plays the bottom team in that conference. So 1 plays 8, 2 plays 7, etc. Winners go to the semifinals. Winners of the semifinals go to the conference finals. The winners of the conference finals go to the Stanley Cup finals. In each round there are 7 games. You have to win 4 of those to win the round.

Stiles doesn’t talk to Derek for the next two weeks. He drives himself to practice and doesn’t look at Derek in the locker room. He even manages to avoid conversation when Derek starts practice again. Derek doesn’t comment on his play at all, even when he lets in an easy goal. Stiles tells himself the team doesn’t notice. Yeah, right.

The mood in the locker room is tense. The guys are giving both Derek and Stiles a wide berth after the incident, and Stiles doesn’t blame them. If anyone rubbed him the wrong way right now, he’d probably punch them in the face. Or, you know, huff about it a little bit. Needless to say, it translates to his game - and his game is better than ever. Apparently, he plays well when he’s angry, or maybe when he has something to prove. He’s managed a shutout in every game since he and Derek’s fight, and he’s damn proud of it too. But when the team hugs him, congratulates him, slams him into the glass.. he wishes Derek were with them. Of course, he doesn’t mention that to anyone.

Isaac and Lydia give Stiles the first week off from a guilt trip, but start badgering him after that. He isn’t giving in, no way, no how. He hasn’t done shit wrong, and you know what? Derek can’t just get away with being an asshole because of his face and abs and the C on his chest. He’s going to have to own up.

After the last practice before Derek’s first game back, Lydia corners Stiles on his way to the showers. “No,” he tells her before she even opens her mouth. “Not happening.” She smacks the back of his head gently.

“Your stats are down,” she tells him. “Come see me after your shower.” He groans, because he knows she isn’t making it up. He had an off day.

“Yeah, yeah okay.” He leaves before he hears Isaac ask Derek for some extra help with his backhands. He doesn’t seem them go back onto the ice, and he doesn’t see Lydia wink at Isaac. Perfect.

~

“Lydia?” Stiles calls. She’s usually waiting in the locker room for anyone that needs to go over statistics. He sighs, she’s probably out at the bench. Needless to say, he isn’t amused when he gets there to find her watching Isaac and Derek practice. “What is this Lydia?” She smiles innocently at him.

“I told you, your stats are off.” He groans and snatches her tablet, looking at the charts. She starts explaining his patterns over the past few days when a puck flies right past his head.

“JESUS ISAAC,” he screams, “you could have taken my head off!” Isaac just laughs at him and hipchecks Derek on the other side of the ice.

“Could you go get that, captain?” Derek snarls at him, shaking his head. Isaac laughs again and plops down on the ice. “Well, I’m not going to.” Derek glares.

“Are you serious?” Isaac nods enthusiastically. Derek just grunts and skates towards the bench. Stiles pointedly ignores him when he gets there, letting Derek stand awkwardly next to him. Finally, Derek breaks, he needs to puck to get away. “Stiles, could-” Stiles shoves Lydia’s tablet back into her hands and walks towards the tunnel.

“Nice try, guys!” Lydia sits on the bench with a sigh, and Isaac groans on the ice, flopping onto his back.

“Good job Derek,” Lydia tells him. “Can’t even apologize, what kind of captain?” Derek mumbles something under his breath. “What was that? Could not here.”

“I messed up, okay? But I don’t do apologies.”

“And why that?” Lydia snaps back. Derek sighs dramatically.

“He deserves more than a forced apology.” Stiles steps away from his hiding spot against the wall to look at Derek, who jumps in surprise. Stiles stares at him, chewing on his bottom lip. He opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats. Eventually, Derek looks down at his skates, and Stiles walks away.

~

In the locker room before the game, Derek steps in front of Stiles. Stiles chews on his lip again and stares Derek in the eye, determined not to look away. Derek just nods slowly at him, and Stiles screams internally, but nods back anyway. It’s a start.

They’re both on fire on the ice. The first two periods pass without any score due to spotless goaltending on both ends. When the third comes, either Derek picks it up or Peter loses his touch, because Derek gets a hat trick. He makes the third goal a split second before the horn sounds, and the team erupts. Derek gets slammed against the wall by his line, quickly followed by the rest of the team.

Stiles is speechless. Derek looked alive, happy, _perfect_ on the ice. So when Derek gets out of the dogpile and skates toward center ice, Stiles follows suit. Derek takes his helmet (and attached mouth guard off), and he’s staring right at Stiles. Stiles grins, anger forgotten, and slams into Derek himself. “You did great,” he shouts in his ear over the cheers. Derek laughs, pulling back and putting both of his hands on Stiles’ shoulders.

“You did better.” The team surrounds them, and Isaac screams something that sounds a lot like “finally.”

~

It’s so good to have Derek back on his house, in his space, in his arms. Stiles nuzzles into his neck the second they get inside, and pulls him towards the couch to lie down. They didn’t say anything on the ride home, just hummed along to the radio with smiles painted on their faces.

Derek pulls Stiles’ head to his chest, wrapping his arms around him tightly. “I worry about you on the ice.. apparently I don’t.. express that well. I’m sorry,” he mumbles into Stiles’ hair. Stiles sighs contentedly. There’s nothing that cannot be healed via hockey.

“So am I.”

“You have noth-” Stiles shakes his head against Derek’s chest.

“Shush,” he tells him, craning his neck up for a kiss. “I missed you.”

~

The playoffs are here, and Stiles has never been more excited for something in his entire life. He’s especially happy that they’re playing the Bears in the first round, a team they’ve proven again and again that they can beat.

If only anything in his life were that easy. They struggle, and they struggle hard. The first round goes to the seventh game, and they only manage to scrape a win on home ice. Stiles isn’t going to lie, he blames himself. Even though every win by the Bears was 1-0, that’s still one goal Stiles should have stopped. He’s disappointed with himself.

So he tries to pick it up in the next round, to no avail. This time it only goes to game six, but the Lords put in more than a goal per game. In fact, Stiles does so bad that Finstock pulls him aside after game four. “If Gerard didn’t play like he has arthritis,” he warns, “you’d be bench warming for the rest of the playoffs.”

During their victory movie night, Derek pulls Stiles onto his lap and sighs. Stiles groans. “Go ahead, tell me off.” Derek shakes his head and kisses Stiles slowly on the lips.

“I just want you to know I believe in you. I don’t know if there’s something going on, or if you’re just having a shitty streak. But I still believe in you. I won’t stop.” Stiles’ jaw almost drops; that’s the nicest thing he’s ever heard Derek say. He’s pretty sure that’s the nicest thing Derek has said in his _life_ actually, so he nods slowly, savoring it. He kisses Derek with a small smile. He believes in himself too.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ.** In this chapter, Stiles is mentally and physically terrorized by Matt. There is no sexual assault, but this chapter has the potential to be triggering. Please proceed with caution.

The Wolves pulverize the Cobras in the conference finals. It’s a clean sweep, four wins in a row, and Stiles has never been more proud of his game. No one really has any clue what’s gotten into the Cobras, but it doesn’t matter. They’re in the Stanley Cup finals, for the love of god Stiles is only twenty and going to the finals and he is _freaking out._ Casually, of course.

What’s best though (in his honest opinion) is the week they have off before their next game. He’s ecstatic to be able to sleep in and eat junk food and - okay, that isn’t going to happen. But at least he gets to stay in the same town for more than three days.

He gets one day off of 6:00 AM practice, _one single day,_ and then Derek takes it upon himself to bang on the door before the sun even rises. Stiles stumbles down the stairs half asleep. Would two days of rest be too much to ask, really? He pulls the door open a crack. “This better be an emergency Derek.” Derek shoves the door the rest of the way open.

“Wake up. Time to run.” Stiles groans and heads back towards the stairs.

“How about no?” Derek chases him, picking him up and throwing him over his shoulder playfully.

“If you manage to keep up we can shower together after,” Derek tells him on the way upstairs. Stiles whines.

“That’s _impossible,_ no fair!” Derek chuckles.

~

Stiles has very vivid dreams. He always has. When he younger, he would get scared, wake up and run to his parents bed when a volcano erupted in his mind or there was an explosion in his head. Then his mom died, and he didn’t want to bother his dad with problems that weren’t even real. So he learned to suck it up.

When his dad died, the dreams got even harder to deal with. At least when he had his father in the next room, he knew if he _really_ needed someone, they were just a few feet away. Eventually though, he learned to cope again. He told himself his dreams weren’t always nightmares, that they were just a little bit... detailed. Detailed he can handle.

So when Stiles hears a crash in the middle of the night, he glances at the clock - 2:13 AM _Jesus_ if Derek wakes him up in four hours he swears - and goes right back to sleep. Looking back, Stiles guesses he’s lucky that Matt knocked down a side table in the living room, because it gave him time to snatch his phone. “Hello,” he says frantically, trying to keep his voice down, “I think someone’s broken into my house.” They tell him they’re going to track his phone and to stay on the line, but Stiles hears someone right outside his door. So he tosses his phone underneath his bed.

He looks for something large and blunt to hold for protection, but then the door’s opening and the light gets flipped on. “Rise and shine,” Matt says happily as Stiles backs himself against the wall. Matt looks to either side of Stiles and grins, so Stiles follows suit. Fuck, there’s nothing to protect himself within arms reach, and Matt - Matt has a knife. Matt has a fucking knife.

Stiles tries to breathe, tries to tell himself ‘I’m a hockey player,’ but Matt is smiling, excited and evil and Stiles feels his head swimming again. Where the hell is fight or flight when he needs it? Matt beckons him forward with the knife, nodding his head towards the chair next to the bed. Stiles doesn’t move.

“Sit, or I’m going to kill you.” Matt doesn’t even blink, and suddenly Stiles’ legs are moving on their own. He sits, and Matt grins. Matt reaches into his jacket, pulling out what looks like a can of mace. “Now Stiles,” he says gently, stepping forward, “you’re not going to try to hurt me. Or I’ll blind you, then kill you.” He stops, cocking his head to the side. Clearly, he’s waiting for an answer, but Stiles can barely breathe, let alone talk. “Do you understand?” Matt snarls. Stiles forces himself to nod.

‘The police will be here soon,’ he tells himself, ‘I’ll be fine until then.’ He doesn’t think about what happens if Matt just kills him when the cops get there. The thought doesn’t even occur to him. “Scoot the chair forward,” Matt tells him, so he does. Then Matt’s behind him, and there’s a cold knife pressed against his cheek.

“It hurt, you know.” Matt drags the knife up and down Stiles’ face slowly, enough to scrape him and draw blood, but not enough to hurt significantly. Stiles works as hard as possible to stay perfectly still. “Ask me what hurt,” Matt snaps, pressing the knife in a little more. Stiles jumps.

“What hurt?” Matt laughs.

“You ignoring me, you leaving me, leaving _everything_ at home behind.” Stiles nods slowly, because he thinks he’s supposed to interact here. “I could have understood, you know,” Matt continues quietly, moving the knife underneath Stiles’ jaw, “if you just wanted to focus on your career. But you have time for your new boyfriend, what’s his name, Hale? You have time for him, so obviously, it was me.”

Matt moves slowly in front of Stiles, kneeling. He holds the mace directly next to Stiles’ eyes, and drags the knife below Stiles’ collarbones, down his chest, over his stomach. “Which I don’t understand. Clarify for me, would you? Why would you leave what we had?” He pauses, looking Stiles in the eyes.

“I.. I don’t know,” Stiles stutters. Matt frowns, pushing the tip of the knife against Stiles’ abdomen, not quite piercing the skin.

“Try again.” Stiles takes a shaky breath. How long has it been? The cops will be here soon. He’s going to be okay. “I said,” Matt says harshly, “try again!” He puts the knife to Stiles arm and slashes quickly, leaving blood dripping to the floor. Suddenly, Stiles is angry. So, so angry.

“I left,” he growls, “because I deserve better than you.” Matt’s face screws up in anger, but he doesn’t cut Stiles again. In face, he stands up, taking a step back.

“ _What_ did you just say to me?” Stiles hears a car door slam outside, then another one. He has to take a risk here. That could be the cops, or late night partiers. But he’s going to hope for the sake of - well, the sake of his life - that it’s the former.

“I said,” Stiles snaps, standing up, “that I deserve better. You were a piece of shit.” Matt snarls, but he doesn’t step forward.

“I did what was _best_ for you,” Matt snaps. “You needed discipline, security. You needed _me._ You just couldn’t handle it, but I loved you anyway.”

“You didn’t love me,” Stiles says, his voice only slightly shaky, “and you aren’t going to kill me.” Matt laughs at that, raising the knife right next to Stiles’ face.

“We’ll see about th-” And then Matt’s on the floor. There’s a police officer knocking the knife and the mace out of his hands, and another officer grabbing Stiles by the shoulders and rushing him downstairs.

Stiles doesn’t know how long he’s sitting in the back of the ambulance with the blanket over his shoulders, answering the same questions over and over again. The paramedic who put butterfly stitches on his arm keeps telling him that he’s probably in shock. He isn’t in shock. He’s fine. Okay, maybe not _fine,_ but you know what? Matt is going to jail, and he won’t have to worry anymore, and - Derek’s here.

He jumps off of the back of the ambulance - which is really overkill, he thinks, couldn’t an ambulance be of better use somewhere else? - just in time for Derek to grab his face in both hands. “Stiles,” he breathes out. Derek turns Stiles’ face both ways, tracing the shallow cuts with his thumb. “Are you okay? Stupid question. Are you... I don’t know,” he ends in a mumble, pulling Stiles into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Stiles wraps his arms around Derek.

“Yeah,” he says into Derek’s chest quietly, “yeah me too.”

~

Derek follows him to the police station to file his official report - “I’m his captain I might as well be his family,” “you’re not taking him out of my sight,” “if you weren’t a police officer I swear to God.” - and doesn’t leave his side the entire time. When they get back to Derek’s car, Stiles grabs his boyfriend’s hand.

“Can...” he starts, but Derek’s way ahead of him.

“You’re staying at my place tonight,” he tells Stiles, squeezing his hand.

Stiles isn’t even surprised to see at least a dozen extra cars at Derek’s house. News travels fast in Beacon Hills, even at four in the morning. Derek, on the other hand, is shocked. “They don’t even have _keys,_ ” he groans. Stiles manages a small laugh.

“Lydia does.” Derek rolls his eyes.

There are sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows _everywhere._ The house smells like popcorn and the entire team manages a synchronized “welcome home,” the second Stiles walks through the threshold. He doesn’t almost cry, not at all. Stiles snags a handful of popcorn from Scott and settles down on the couch, popping the leg rest. Derek settles next to him, peer pressuring Isaac and Lydia to move down with a glare.

Miracle’s on TV, and Stiles has to hand it to his friends. Even in moments of crisis, they seem to know exactly what to do. He doesn’t need to talk right now. All he needs is to feel safe. And he does, with his boyfriend, his team, the people that mean the most to him. So when he falls asleep, he’s smiling. Smiling and drooling.

More importantly, when he falls asleep he also falls to the side, right onto Derek’s shoulder. Derek thinks about it for a second, then grunts and adjusts them so Stiles falls onto his chest. He wraps his arm around Stiles, squeezing gently and looking down at him fondly. When he looks back up, every set of eyes in the room is focused on him. He meets every single gaze, waiting for someone to say something, but no one does. One by one, everyone nods - Lydia and Isaac with shit eating grins - and switch their attention back to the movie. Derek smiles freely. Looks like it doesn’t matter who sees anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s nice to know Stiles’ team is here for him. It’s nice to blink his eyes open for a few moments in the early morning and realize he’s sleeping on his boyfriend’s chest before falling back asleep. But it’s even nicer to wake up sometime in the early afternoon - actually wake up this time - to the smell of bacon and the quiet chatter of his friends.

Sometime during the biggest breakfast of his life, he glances around and notices Derek isn’t in the room. He shrugs it off, and as he’s finishing his dozenth pancake, he hears the door open. Derek wordlessly dumps three duffel bags in the front hall, nods at Stiles, and grabs his own plate.

“He loves you,” Lydia tells him cheerfully as she steals a bite of his eggs. He whines at her, snatching his fork back.

“Does not.” He hears Derek and Scott groan (they hate it when they can’t understand a conversation) but ignores them. She just wraps both of her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him into a tight hug from behind.

“Just because he doesn’t say it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” It gets Stiles thinking, so after practice (which was thoughtfully rescheduled for the late afternoon, though not thoughtful enough that he gets out of it) he asks Lydia to go to dinner.

“How do you even tell a guy like Derek you love him?” He asks while they wait for their orders, halfway whining. She grins at him like a lunatic.

“I knew it!” He forces himself to glare at her until she sighs. “Alright, alright. I don’t really know. Engrave it on a hockey puck?” He glares harder. “Hockey stick?” He groans.

“I’m fucked.”

~

Games start back up just as Stiles is settling in at Derek’s. His shoes are permanently in the hall closet, his favorite color of gatorade is stocked in the fridge, and his clothes always smell like Derek’s house. It makes him happy. He’s started sleeping closer to Derek again, too. The first several days he kept to the edge of the bed, always reaching out to touch his boyfriend’s arm, but never initiating more contact than that. Derek hasn’t asked, as per usual, and that’s a relief. But now Stiles rests his head cautiously on Derek’s shoulder, falling asleep thankful for the extra warmth in the heavily air conditioned house.

The Emperors are nothing to be laughed at. They dominated their conference, and their goalie has the second best season in the league, second of course to Stiles. So the team is on edge, pushing harder than ever at practice and joking less in the locker room. Stiles takes his role as the comedic relief more seriously than ever on the day of their first game, running out of a bathroom stall dressed as a wolf and growling obnoxiously. He earns a room full of laughing hockey players, and it’s completely worth it.

The first six games are a struggle. They’re back and forth with the Emperors, landing game seven right at home in Beacon Hills. Stiles can barely breathe in the minutes leading up to the big game. His anxiety almost never effects his hockey, but everything is riding on this. He can’t let the team down. It’s like Derek can read his mind, because he puts a warm, gentle hand on Stiles shoulder.

“You’ll do great,” Derek tells him, and Stiles looks up to see the entire room nodding in agreement. He takes a deep breath and smiles.

He does great. He does better than great, he does amazing. The game goes into overtime with a terrifying 0-0 score, and they push it through two extra periods to triple overtime. He gives himself sixty seconds to panic. He sits on the edge of the bench in the locker room, head between his knees and hands gripping his hair. Then he stands up, smiles, and tells himself he can do it. He can hold the Emperors off until he team comes through with a goal.

He does it. They win the mother fucking Stanley Cup. Stiles hears the horn, he hears the cheers, he even sees the team slam Derek into the wall after he puts in a beautiful shorthanded goal. But he doesn’t believe it until the guys are heading down to his end, and he’s in the center of the most revved up group of people he’s ever seen. His mask gets pulled off and thrown god knows where, and then it hits him. They won.

He starts screaming with everyone else, wordless and loud enough that he’ll have a sore throat tomorrow. He’s jumping and being jostled around and then Derek’s there. Right in front of him, in his space, and technically _everyone_ is in his space but this is different. Surrounded by their team, where it won’t look at all out of place, Derek squeezes Stiles with every ounce of energy he has. Then he presses his forehead to Stiles’, looks him right in the eye, and says (okay, screams) “I love you.”

Everyone’s saying I love you right now. “I love you guys,” “I love this team,” “I love this city,” but Derek isn’t looking at anyone else. Stiles knows it’s for him, and his heart almost beats out of his chest. “I love you too!” Then he’s pulled away, tossed around some more to hug his team and scream and jump. They won the Stanley Cup and Derek loves him. This is the best day of his life.

Stiles is the only one surprised when he wins the Conn Smythe for being the MVP of the playoffs. He gets a countless number of pats on the pack and doesn’t even have to try and smile for the camera. But the biggest surprise is when he lifts the Cup over his head and it feels like a feather. ‘35 pounds my ASS,’ he thinks, kissing the cold metal.

~

Beacon Hills was not built to handle an entire hockey organization high on victory. There are beads and beer cans and trash in the streets for the next week, and everywhere Stiles goes people are chanting. It’s insane. He’s never been more drunk in his life, and he’s screaming from balconies and dancing with everyone and singing at the top of his lungs for seven days straight.

Then it’s the official parade, and Stiles has to make a speech. A short speech, but a speech none the less, and he’s never been good at these. He plans it all out in his head and runs it over and over again, but when he steps up to the podium after Derek he freezes. He looks out at the fans and his mind goes blank, so he wings it.

“HELLO BEACON HILLS!” He screams, and the crowd goes wild. “I don’t know what to say, honestly.” They laugh. “No seriously guys, I’m blanking.” More laughing. “Ah, screw it. This is the best fucking team in the world,” he pauses until it quiets down, “this is the best fucking city in the world,” more screaming, “and I can’t believe this is my life. Thank you for everything, you guys!” Deaton pats him on the back when he gives the podium to Scott, so he guesses he did okay.

~

Stiles doesn’t want to go home. Home is all the way across the country and the more he thinks about it, that place isn’t home anymore. He has nothing to go back for. But he can’t go back to that house, or more he doesn’t want to, and he barely made it through buying the place. How does he even go about doing that again? His reasons to stick around at Derek’s are running low, though. He has to do something soon, so he calls Lydia.

“Just ask him,” she tells him, sounding bored.

“It isn’t that easy!” She laughs.

“Why not?”

So when Derek gets out of the shower Stiles makes sure he comes downstairs to music playing. He hops off the couch when Derek walks into the living room, hair wet and cheeks still slightly flushed from his run. “Stiles?” Stiles smiles shyly, walking forward and inserting himself into Derek’s arms.

“Dance?” It says a lot about their relationship that Derek doesn’t question it. He just nods gently, swaying to the music, a little off rhythm as usual. Stiles doesn’t take his face out of the crook of Derek’s neck when he says his name. Derek pulls back though, grabbing Stiles’ face gently with one hand.

“Yes?” Stiles looks at the floor, but then he remembers “why not?” and meets Derek’s gaze.

“Would you still do anything for me?” Derek nods gently.

“Of course.” Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath.

“So if I asked you if I could stay here...” Derek grins like a kid on Christmas.

“I’ve just been waiting for you to ask.”

Derek kisses him, and it’s quite possibly the best kiss of Stiles’ life. Derek’s lips on his say so many things. He’s home. He’s always been home. He’s an idiot for thinking otherwise. He’s safe. He’s loved. He’s pulling Derek towards the stairs, and Derek is following him without question.

Stiles undresses Derek like his life depends on it, and he’s suddenly very thankful for the invention of sweatpants. He sheds his own clothes faster than Derek can attempt it, and walks them towards the bed, lips connected again. Stiles straddles Derek’s hips, mouthing at his jaw and neck while Derek sighs eagerly. Derek’s hands are cupping his ass, squeezing and rubbing and Stiles goes from half hard to straining and leaking within a few minutes.

Derek puts a hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, guiding their mouths together so they can bite each other’s lips and moan into each other’s mouths, bucking their hips together gently. As always with Derek, the kiss is loose and sloppy and uncoordinated, but to Stiles, it’s perfect. It’s Derek out of control, without the discipline he applies to the rest of his life, and it makes his heart race.

He hates pulling away, especially when Derek whimpers involuntarily at the loss. But he presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder and leans to the side, towards the bedside table. He fishes around and finds a condom and lube, putting them gently on the bed. He cocks his head to the side, as if it’s actually a _question_ in Derek’s mind, but he waits for a nod anyway, because he'd want Derek to do the same for him. He gets one. Good, that’s great, but he isn’t in a hurry.

Stiles slides down placing both hands on Derek’s hips and kissing the tip of his cock. He stays on all fours and arches his back so Derek can see his ass, because he knows how much Derek loves his ass. _Cherishes_ it is probably a better word, to be honest. Derek groans when Stiles licks a long line up his dick, blowing hot breath along the same path until Derek tries to push his hips off the bed. Stiles chuckles, taking Derek’s dick in his hand without using his hands.

Derek sighs, jerking when Stiles hums low in the back of his throat. Stiles flicks his tongue over the tip, swirling quickly before thrusting his mouth back down, over and over again until Derek is practically whining. Then he pulls off with a pop, sitting back on his calves and putting his hand out. Derek glares in protest for a minute before catching on, handing Stiles the lube.

He takes his time warming it up, tracing his fingers up and down Derek’s thighs until they’re pointlessly slick, one hand stroking Derek’s dick lazily. Derek just whimpers, pushing his hips towards Stiles to no avail. He’s enjoying watching his boyfriend fall apart, pupils wide and lips red. Finally he takes pity, pressing the tip of a finger to Derek’s hole. He leans down to lick at Derek’s dick slowly while he pushes it in gently.

Derek sighs, sounding content and worked up at the same time, and Stiles watches his eyes flutter and his mouth move wordlessly as he pumps his finger in and out. Derek’s breath hitches when he adds another, scissoring him open as tenderly as possible. He’s careful and thorough, alternating between palming Derek’s dick and licking it as he works him, because he wants him to be ready.

Apparently he is, because Derek groans “Stiles” while he pushes his hips down, now clearly impatient instead of content. Stiles grins, curling his fingers up once to his Derek’s prostate and make him jump, before pulling out slowly, wiping his fingers and grabbing the condom. “Let me,” Derek offers roughly, propping himself on one elbow. He rolls it onto Stiles and this _really_ shouldn’t be sexy, it’s just a condom, but it makes Stiles’ dick twitch.

Derek rubs the lube onto him too, fast but steady to warm it up, before pulling Stiles down with a slicked up hand for a deep kiss. When Stiles pulls back, its to push Derek’s knees a little further apart and up, and settle between his hips. He rests the head of his dick against Derek, waiting for Derek to say something like “okay.” Instead he says “I love you, Stiles.”

Stiles is so taken aback that he almost _moves_ back, because really? Derek mixing emotion and sex? Impossible. But Derek looks so vulnerable, open, and wanting. Not wanting to get fucked - okay, that too - but wanting to be loved. And Stiles can’t deny him of that, so he looks Derek right in the eyes and says “I love you, too,” as he pushes into him.

Derek holds his breath until Stiles bottoms out, which takes a minute because he’s going slowly, carefully. When he’s pushed all the way in, Stiles leans forward on his arms to press his forehead to Derek’s. They breathe together and kiss slowly, before Derek moves his hips insistently. “Stiles,” he whines.

It takes them a few minutes to get a rhythm going, and Stiles has to stop to reapply lube, and Derek accidentally elbows him in the neck once. But when they get it right, Stiles is thrusting slow but deep, and it’s taking all he has to hold himself up. Derek tilts his hips _just right,_ and then Stiles is hitting his prostate with every movement, and Derek is moaning his name like it’s the only word he knows.

“Please,” Derek whines after a few minutes like that, “Stiles, _please-_ ” His voice cuts out and he practically shouts at a particularly hard thrust. Stiles just nods, unable to form words, and reaches a hand between them to stroke Derek’s dick. He twists his wrist relentlessly, and when he drags his thumb over the tip Derek shudders, seizing up as he comes all over Stiles’ stomach.

Derek goes so fucking _tight_ when he comes, so tight that it’s almost hard to move, but Stiles manages two shallow thrusts that tip him over the edge right along with Derek. He presses his forehead to his boyfriend’s shoulder, letting out an embarrassingly high pitched “Derek!”

It takes him a minute to be able to see straight, and he makes himself pull out, slowing down when he hears Derek hold his breath again. He falls to the side, taking the condom off and dumping it in the trashcan next to the bed. When he rolls back over, Derek grabs him, pulling them together and tangling their limbs.

They’re covered in sweat and come, Derek has noticeable bite marks that Stiles is going to get yelled at for later, and Stiles is pretty sure his legs are going to go numb if they stay like this. But he doesn’t care, he’s never been happier. He kisses Derek slowly, one hand pressed against the scruff on his cheek and the other curled around his neck. “I love you,” he whispers when they pull back, and Derek presses himself downward to kiss Stiles’ forehead.

“I love you, too.” Stiles grins, pressing his face into Derek’s chest happily. He says something in Russian, and it was meant to be cute, really, it was, but Derek flicks him in the ear.

“Don’t even start,” he growls, but there’s no real anger in it. Stiles lets out a chirp of laughter, and falls asleep before anything goes numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that read this - chapter by chapter, all at once, in full or just sections. I loved writing it, combining one of my OTPs and my favorite sport was really fun! I appreciate every read, kudo, and comment you guys have left me :) If there's anything you'd like written (Teen Wolf or any other fandom I'm farmiliar with) please message me on my Tumblr (notchinmybedpost) and I'd be glad to give it a shot!


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